


A Hollow Within (Part One), by Sue Kelley

by sknkodiak, Sue Kelley (sknkodiak)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:39:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sknkodiak/pseuds/sknkodiak, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sknkodiak/pseuds/Sue%20Kelley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A misunderstanding causes Blair to move out of the loft--into a house where strange things happen nightly</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** A slightly different version of this story was first printed  
>  in _Sentry Post 3_ (available from GraphicsOne Press, Linda Hutcheson,  
>  editor). That version was betaread by Wendy Myers, Dawn Cunningham, and  
> Judy Schulz. Many thanks, ladies!
> 
> The original idea for this story came from Linda Hutcheson. Although  
> the story developed differently than either one of us expected, she still  
> has my sincere thanks. And who knows, maybe someday I'll actually write  
> the story she suggested! 
> 
> _A Hollow Within_ won a Cascade award in 1999 for Best Short Story  
>  in a Fanzine. The zine _Sentry Post 3_ also won for Best Fanzine.

A Hollow Within  
Part One  
 **by Sue Kelley**

 

**PROLOGUE**

~~So this is how it ends.~~

Blair Sandburg stared out at the sheets of rain drenching the freeway. The windshield wipers fought a losing battle with the elements. Horns honked and brake lights flashed as cars inched forward toward the airport off-ramp. Blair shivered. 

"Cold, Chief?" the driver of the pickup truck asked, leaning forward to crank up the heater. 

Blair didn't answer. He knew, and he was willing to bet Jim also knew, his shivering had less to do with the temperature outside the truck than it had to do with the words just spoken inside. 

Casual words. Simple words. Words that had just rocked Blair Sandburg's world to its foundations. 

Jim Ellison let out his breath in a long sigh, drumming his fingers as if he could make all the cars between him and his goal, the airport, disappear. 'Disappear the way he'd just ordered his partner to,' Blair thought, then shook his head. That wasn't fair. All Jim wanted him to do was-- 

"Sandburg, will you please talk to me?" the police detective implored.

Blair shrugged one shoulder, his eyes still stubbornly glued to the scene outside the truck. "Nothing to say, man. It's your place. Your name on the mortgage. You want me gone, I am, like, *so* gone, man!" 

"Damn it, Sandburg!" Jim pounded his hand against the steering wheel. "That is not what I want!" 

"Well, forgive me, Jim, I'm a little confused here. Did you or did you not just ask me to move out of your home?" 

Jim Ellison took a deep breath, then another, then still another. Part of Blair, the part that was Guide to Ellison's Sentinel, approved. The other part: the part formed in a childhood that was, at best, unconventional, at worst, rootless; just wanted to wake up from the nightmare that the day had suddenly become. 

"Chief, this has nothing to do with you," Jim said finally, his voice calm. "It has everything to do with me. Hell, you know how I've been lately! Jumping all over you, moody, irritable-- you've been a saint to put up with me. Not even *Carolyn* would have been as patient as you have been. But it's not right. If something doesn't give soon I'm afraid you'll end up hating me." 

Blair shook his head. "I don't--" he started.

"Not now, but how long can you put up with me reaming you out for ten minutes because there's one water spot on the faucet?" 

Blair winced at the reminder of the blistering argument of the day before. Actually there hadn't been much of an argument to it: Jim had yelled and Blair had merely stood there, stunned with his partner's ire. 

"I need some space," Jim announced.

"Okay." Blair nodded. "That's cool. But tell me something, Jim, how long has this need for space been manifesting itself?" 'How long have you wanted to get rid of me and just never said?' 

Jim drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I don't know," he answered slowly. "Things have just been, you know, difficult lately. Ever since Inchaca died--" 

"That was months ago, Jim!"

"I know. I just haven't been able to... Hell, Sandburg, I'm no good at this talking crap, you know that. All of a sudden, things just got so hard to handle. I had to spend more and more energy just keeping my temper. After that business with Landry, Simon suggested I go talk to Dr. Ayer. She helped, Chief, she pointed out that you and I are together 95% of the time. Except when you're at school... we live together, we work together, we hang out together. I don't have any... place where I can just... I don't have any space." 

That word again.

"You talked to the department shrink about me?" Blair managed to ask evenly. 

Jim sighed in relief as the sluggish traffic started to move and he could finally exit the freeway. "No," he corrected, "I talked to her about *me*. Us. She said some people aren't cut out for intimate relationships--"

"*Excuse me?*" Blair broke in.

"She means emotionally intimate," Jim hastened to explain, flushing a little. 

"Well, I figured that, but--"

Jim held up his hand. "Let me finish, okay? Sandburg, I have to have you in my life as my Guide. I can't do this Sentinel thing without you; you know that. I want to have you in my life as my friend. I don't say this enough, Hell, I've probably never said it at all, but you are my best friend and I can't, *I won't*, lose that. So the only thing left is the roommate part. Please, say you understand." 

'I don't.' Blair sighed in turn. 'Hey, it had to happen sooner or later. The man is a loner. He let me move in for one week... that was over two years ago. 

'But I am his Guide. He can't take that away; it doesn't even sound like he wants to. And the friendship, that's still there, too. So if he needs some privacy, some *space*, is that so much to ask?' 

Fairness demanded a "no" answer. Blair straightened up in his seat, forcing a smile on his face. "Hey, Jim, it's cool. No problem." 

He saw the relief cross Ellison's face at his words. The detective said warningly, "Now, I don't want you to get the idea of running out and finding some rat hole to move into while I'm gone. We can go apartment hunting together-- I've seen the kind of place *you'd* pick to live in and I have a slightly higher standard. Like, heat, running water, and locks on the doors. Someplace close... maybe in the University Heights area, or those condos over on Summerhill." 

Blair's carefully forged smile vanished with a sinking feeling in his stomach. "I'm not really a condo type... and those places are a little out of my budget." 

They had reached the parking lot. Jim rolled down the window to pluck a ticket from the machine and the black-and-white arm flew upwards. "I can--" 

"No!" Blair snapped. "Don't even go there. I'll find something in my price range." 

Jim slowed the truck to make a wide turn into a parking space. "*We'll* find you something," he reiterated, reaching behind him for his bag. "It'll work out, Chief, you'll see." 

"That sounds like my line." Blair forced another grin as he slid underneath the steering wheel. "Have a good trip, man." 

"See you in a week." Jim Ellison smiled, a real smile that lit up his blue eyes. "Take care of yourself, Sandburg, remember your Blessed Protector won't be around to do it." 

"You got it, man. Try not to get fried in all that hot Texas sunshine."

"You try not to drown," Jim returned lightly. He shouldered his bag and started to lope toward the terminal. 

Blair watched until the tall figure vanished inside the building. He let his carefully contrived smile vanish as he leaned his head back against the seat. 

'What the hell do I do now?'

After several long minutes of furious thought, he reached over and pulled his cell phone out of his backpack. He punched in the number of the Anthropology Department at Rainier University and waited. A woman's voice picked up on the second ring and he identified himself, then asked to speak to the department head. 

"Hey, Dr. Martinez. I just wanted to ask you, I heard you were trying to find someone to house-sit for several months?" He listened to the response, then took a deep breath. "Yes, I do know somebody who is interested. Me." 

**~~One week later...~~**

Jim Ellison glared impatiently at the portly businessman in front of him, who was taking his own sweet time pulling a suitcase out of the overhead compartment. His facial expression had no impact on the man, who sat the bag on his just-vacated seat while he pulled on an overcoat, then hefted the bag and slowly walked down the aisle, stopping to exchange pleasantries with two fight attendants and the pilot of the plane. 

The trip back to Cascade had done a lot to mitigate the good feelings Jim had acquired during the week away. Whichever police department secretary that made his travel arrangements had either made a terrible mistake or had some personal grudge against Ellison. On the trip to Dallas, Jim had flown from Cascade to San Francisco to Dallas. The return trip, however, was scheduled on a cut-rate economy airline that crammed additional people on the plane and had landed in four other cities before finally making it to Cascade. The plane had over-heated one degree in Phoenix, necessitating the removal of 1500 pounds of fuel, which of course had to be replaced upon landing in San Francisco. Then, in Las Vegas, a ten-year-old boy traveling in care of the flight attendant somehow managed to get off the plane and departure was held up for over twenty minutes while Security found him. The flight over two hours late to Cascade.

The Sentinel felt the tension leave his shoulders slightly as his hearing focused on one particular heartbeat in the waiting area. Oddly enough, he had never mentioned to Blair that he could pick out the sound of his heartbeat anywhere. He probably *should* tell the kid someday; it might be important to his research. 

Blair was leaning against the wall directly across from the gate. Jim was surprised to see his Guide had not come alone; Simon Banks, the captain of Major Crimes, and his son Darryl were there too. Blair moved forward to him. "Hey, Jim, how was it?" he asked easily. 

"The trip back was awful. The seminar wasn't bad; better than I expected, really. Learned some things, met some people. Have you been waiting all this time?" 

Blair's eyes shifted to watch a pretty young woman dodge around them in order to fling herself into the arms of a guy built along the general lines of a tyrannosaurus Rex. "Nah. I've traveled on Cattle Car Airlines before; I called before I left to find out how overdue the plane would be. Simon and Darryl came along so we could all go out to dinner together." He cast a mock-serious look at the tall captain. "Bet he'll want to hear all about the new cop-things you learned in Dallas." 

"Cop things, Sandburg?" Simon questioned mockingly. "How about it, Jim? Are you up for Eddy's Steak House?" 

"Sure." With effort, Jim stifled a sigh. 'No time to talk now,' he thought. He really wanted to talk with his partner, apologize for the way he'd left things between them. He didn't really want Blair to move out; he just hadn't been able to think of any other solution. And Dr. Ayer's concerns about Sandburg hadn't helped the situation any. 'Tonight, after we get home, we can really talk about it, he decided. Really talk, not just me dictating orders to the troops.' Satisfied with his line of thought, he grinned at the younger man as they joined the crowd in Baggage Claim. Blair grinned back, albeit a bit nervously. 'Don't worry, Chief, we'll come up with something.' 

*** ***

Eddy's was crowded but Simon had had the forethought to make reservations. The cheerful Lebanese waiter brought a platter of raw vegetables to start, with humus and tabuli in separate dishes. They ordered, then still another waiter appeared with a basket of hot rolls, a wire-gilt basket of pats of butter, and a cabbage roll for each of them. Darryl stared at the cabbage leaf stuffed with delicately seasoned ground meat and rice with something like horror, so the other three split his between them. 

Blair talked mostly with Darryl, about some school project he'd been helping the teen with; while Jim told Simon about the week in Dallas.

Then, large, juicy steaks arrived for all of them--even Blair--whose known disdain for red meat flew out the window when it came to Eddy's steaks. The steaks were accompanied by baked potatoes and more fresh vegetables. Jim avoided Blair's eye as he loaded his potato with butter, sour cream and cheese. He had just taken a second bite of succulent steak when suddenly Darryl turned to him, excitement painted all over his face, and commented, "So you going to help Blair move, Jim? Boy, wait until you see his new place! It's awesome!" 

Dead silence. Jim almost choked on the bite of steak. He looked around the table: Simon looked as astounded as Jim felt; Darryl grinned happily, completely innocent of the shock he'd just handed the Sentinel. Blair was staring at his plate, his cheeks turning red. 

Darryl looked at Blair, then back at Jim, belatedly realizing that something was wrong. "Umm," he said uncertainly, "did I say something wrong? Blair? Dad?" 

"Shit," Blair muttered quietly into his plate.

*** ***

"I can't *believe* you did something so completely--" Words failed Jim Ellison and he broke off to stare out the window of the pickup, his jaw clenching. 

'Uh-oh, there he goes with the jaw again. This is not good.' "I was going to tell you," Blair defended himself. 

"When? When were you going to tell me, Sandburg? When you carried out your suitcase?" 

"Well, actually, I've already moved my stuff," Blair admitted in a small voice. Then he rallied. "What is the big deal here, man? You asked me to move. I moved! I *am* sorry that Darryl spilled the beans before I could tell you, but what *exactly* is your problem?" 

"My *problem* is that we decided we'd pick your new place together! I've seen your idea of adequate living quarters, Sandburg--" 

"Excuse me? *We* didn't decide anything... *you* decided. Which is fine, but I am an adult, you know. I am capable of picking out a place to live." 

"Really? Since when? I saw the last place you picked out, Sandburg, remember? The place that *didn't* have heat and *did* have rats the size of cocker spaniels. The place that blew up after a gangland shooting in the crackhouse next door!" 

"That could have happened anywhere. Anyway, this place isn't like that. It has heat." 

"Does it have locks on the doors? For that matter, does it have *doors?*" Jim inquired acidly. 

Blair actually laughed. "Yes, it does. Jim, really, it's okay. You'll like it. It's on the beach, well, *above* the beach, even. You can come surf." 

They were at a red light. Jim took his eyes off the road to stare at his partner. "On the beach? Where is this place, exactly?" 

"About eighteen miles north on the Coast Highway. Man, it's great. See, this friend of one of the profs at Rainier has just inherited the house from like his uncle or his second cousin or something. They're in England for at least the next nine months. They're not sure if they want to sell it or keep it, so they asked Dr. Martinez if he could find someone just to live in it and take care of it, I mean, the house is like loaded with furniture and art and stuff.... and I don't have to pay the rent, just utilities." 

The light turned green, but instead of making the right turn to head for the loft, Jim went straight. Beside him, Blair frowned. "Jim, where are we going?" 

"Out to see this new place of yours," Jim answered grimly.

"*Tonight?*"

Jim glared at him. "You have some problem with me seeing it tonight?"

"Well, yeah! Among other things, I need my car! And it's parked at ho-- it's parked at your place," Blair corrected himself hastily. 

Jim clenched his jaw again. "Fine," he ground out. "I'll take you to get your car, then I'll follow you out there." 

"Jim--"

"Sandburg, this is *not* up for debate. I am going to see your new place. Tonight!" 

*** ***

Blair sighed as he slowed to make the turn from the highway onto the narrow, twisting road that led up to the house. The lights from Jim's pickup truck were still stubbornly right behind him, as they had been since leaving the city lights of Cascade. Blair braked the Volvo and steered all the way to the right to avoid the giant pothole gaping in the road. He'd hit it the first time he'd driven up here--in Jim's truck that time--and spent the next several seconds wondering if the engine was going to fall out. 

He approached the dip where rainwater rushed across the road, glad it wasn't raining tonight. Then the last turn, and his lights picked out the house and the paved parking area at the back. The security lights flared on around the house and he parked the Volvo in a pool of acid light, making sure he set the emergency brake. 

Jim was scowling as he got out of the truck. Blair ignored him as he climbed the steep steps to the deck surrounding the house. He inserted the key in the back door, then stood aside to let Jim precede him in.

Jim glanced around the small service porch area, then, obeying Blair's gesture, stepped into the kitchen. Blair followed, leaning against the wall and trying to see it again through the Sentinel's eyes. 

An old-fashioned, high-domed refrigerator. Lots of cupboards, originally painted white, now time- and dirt-darkened to ecru. The linoleum slightly buckled around the sink. The huge stainless steel stove, with its six burners and two ovens, took up the majority of one wall. The tiny microwave Blair had salvaged from his destroyed warehouse sat on the counter next to a black, rotary-dial telephone and two cardboard boxes filled with Blair's kitchen gear. 

"Can I see the rest of it?" Jim asked, breaking the oppressive silence between them. 

"Sure." Blair backtracked to the service porch, opened a door on the opposite wall. "This is where I'm going to sleep." 

It was a good-sized room, probably originally intended for a cook or housekeeper. Windows on two walls would let in a lot of sun during the day but were covered with heavy, musty-smelling drapes now. Blair's suitcase, duffel and backpack rested on the bare mattress; more cardboard boxes were scattered around the room. Blair dropped into one of the two mismatched chairs in front of the gray stone fireplace. His old black and white portable TV sat on a massive oak chest at the foot of the bed. His eyes tracked Jim as the other man opened first one, then the other, doors on either side of the fireplace, finding first a roomy closet; behind the second an out-of-style, but fully adequate bathroom. 

Jim raised one eyebrow. "The servant's quarters?" he asked mildly. 

"That was *my* choice," Blair said, a little more sharply than he'd meant to. "The rest of the house is like way too fancy for me. I haven't even looked in all the rooms upstairs yet. Oh, but you've got to see this! Follow me!" Blair darted out of the room. A small passageway past the kitchen opened into an impressive, if chilly, entrance hall, with the floors the same gray stone as the fireplace, and the walls richly paneled in some dark wood. Blair hoped Jim would overlook the cobwebs stretched across two corners. He opened the double doors into the living room and fumbled on the wall for the light switch. Jim stepped into the room and blinked. Cathedral ceiling, one whole wall heavy leaden glass. "That looks over the ocean," Blair explained, waving at the windows. "It's really beautiful at sunset." He spun around in the center of the room. "Jim, *look* at this stuff! Do you have any idea how valuable some of this is? Those are jade and ivory figurines in those cabinets. Over here, this lamp, and that one... Ming vases. That horse statue there, that's Tang dynasty!" 

Jim looked around, taking in the Persian carpets, the velvet and brocade upholstery of the chairs and twin love seats. His nose twitched. "Dusty," he commented. 

"Yeah, I know. The guy that owned the house, the one that just died, he'd been in a nursing home for long time, a couple of years at least."

"The house has been vacant?" Jim asked sharply.

"Well, yeah, I guess."

"Not a good idea, if this stuff is as valuable as you say. Is the whole house like this?" Jim was walking around the room, turning his head from side to side as if he were searching for something. 

"The rooms on this floor, yeah. I don't really know what all's upstairs, all the furniture is covered with dustsheets and I really haven't looked. There's an attic, but I haven't gone up there." Blair was speaking to a retreating back. Jim exited the room and made for the graceful staircase. Blair tagged along as Jim opened the door and stuck his head into every room on the second floor. "Six bedrooms," the Sentinel commented eventually. "Not counting the room downstairs and the master suite." He stopped by a closed door at the very end of the hall. "This another bedroom?" He twisted the doorknob. 

"No, that's the stairs up to the attic. What's wrong?" Blair asked, noticing Jim rattling the knob. 

"Door's locked."

"Locked?" Blair's eyes widened. "How did that happen? It wasn't locked the day Dr. Martinez showed me the house, I remember he opened it." Blair sighed. It had been a long day and a stress-filled week and he was tired. "There's a whole bunch of keys downstairs in the study desk," he commented. "I'm sure the key is there." 

"Let's go get them," Jim said briskly, striding to the staircase. 

Blair stared at his retreating back again before running to catch up with him in the downstairs hallway. "Jim, what do you want to look in the attic for? Jeez, man, it's almost midnight. Don't you have to be at the station tomorrow?" 

Jim ignored him. "Where's the study?" he asked, stepping back toward the kitchen wing. "Back here?" 

Blair combed his fingers through his shoulder length curls in exasperation. He felt grimy and fatigued from moving boxes and cleaning both the loft and this house today; he really wanted a hot shower and then to collapse into bed. But apparently Jim wasn't going to leave until he'd seen every room. The Sentinel was in what Blair like to call his "classic BP \-- Blessed Protector mode". 'Either that or he's just convinced there has to be something wrong with the house if I like it,' Blair thought, irritated. He raised his voice. "No, Jim, wrong way. The study is here." He opened the door opposite the living room, flipping on the light switch. Instead of an overhead light, a spotlight came on, highlighting the picture hanging on the north wall. Blair had vaguely noticed the portrait earlier in the day, but now he was struck by it. A woman, early thirties maybe, with red hair in an elaborate weave around a diamond tiara. A scoop-necked black gown provided an appropriate background for a gold statuette she held clasped in her hands. 

He heard a gasp and turned to see Jim in the doorway, staring over his head at the picture. The color drained from the detective's face. "Shit," he breathed. Then his eyes flared to life and "Oh, my God. That's Rita Mallory. This must have been *her* house." He transferred his gaze to his Guide. "Sandburg, pack your things... I don't think you should stay here." 

Blair frowned. "What are you talking about?" He transferred his gaze to the portrait, noticing again how the woman seemed to be looking directly at them. "Jim, I'm not leaving here," he explained calmly, sitting down in one of the huge leather armchairs. "I've agreed to take care of this house for at least six months, and take care of it I will." 

"Sandburg, I don't think it's a good idea for you to live here. It's too remote, too isolated." Jim was arguing with Blair, but he kept looking at the portrait. 

Blair sighed. "It's not that remote. Jeez, Jim, I spent six months in Somalia once. *That* was remote. So who is... or was, Rita Mallory?" He frowned; the name was vaguely familiar, like maybe he should know it, but he couldn't determine why. 

"She was a movie star, a big one, in the fifties and early sixties. Won two Academy Awards. This must have been her house. I knew it was out this way somewhere, but I didn't know for sure where." 

"Okay," Blair said slowly, still not seeing what the problem was. "I mean, cool, I guess, but--" 

"She was murdered," Jim broke in. "Nineteen sixty... six, I think, no, sixty-seven. Her whole family...there were a couple of kids, and her boyfriend. He was some kind of fringe mobster, it was suspected that the deaths may have had something to do with that, but no one was ever arrested." 

Blair's heart was pounding uncomfortably fast. "And this happened... where?" 

Jim's eyes met his. "Right here, Chief. In this house."

"Oh." Blair swallowed hard. "How?"

Jim's eyes flickered. "I don't think you really want to know," he said shortly. 

"Oh," Blair repeated. After a long, uncomfortable silence, he went on, trying to force a note of cheer into his voice, "Well, it was thirty years ago." 

Jim didn't look convinced. "Look, Chief, I just don't think this is such a good idea. Why don't you come back--" 

"Damn, Jim, what do you want out of me?" Blair exploded. "You ask me to move out, because you 'need your space'. Okay, I moved. Now you don't like where I've moved and you want me to move back? Can we, like, get on the same page here?" 

"I didn't ask you to move to the first available hovel you could find!" Jim fired back. 

Blair rolled his eyes. "It's hardly a hovel." He made a production out of looking at his watch. "Wow, look at the time. I have a nine o'clock class tomorrow." He raised innocent blue eyes to look at Jim. "I'll come by the station after classes are over." 

Jim looked as if he wanted to argue, but then he shrugged, glanced at his own watch, took one last look at the portrait, and followed Blair from the study. "Are you sure you'll be all right here alone?" he asked, when he was standing by the back door. 

"I'll be fine." Blair reached around the bigger man to open the door.

Jim stepped out into the cold, damp air. "Make sure to lock all the doors and--" 

"Jim, I'll be fine," Blair interrupted. "Go on. Be careful driving home. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon." 

*** ***

Jim Ellison sat bolt upright in bed, every nerve ending screaming, adrenaline pounding into every cell as the Sentinel instinctively prepared to protect, to defend. 

The loft lay dark, quiet, and peaceful around him.

After several frozen seconds, Jim's mind belatedly caught up with his body and he dropped back onto the pillows with a sigh. A quick peek at the bedside clock revealed that it was 4:10 a.m. Jim groaned. It had been almost two when he had finally fallen into bed and this was his third awakening tonight. 

He remembered Sally, the housekeeper his father had hired to keep an eye on Jim and his brother Steven after their mother had left. Sally had always made hot milk with cinnamon when somebody couldn't sleep. Sandburg, no doubt, would prescribe one of those crazy teas he was always drinking. Chamomile or verbena or peppermint or something like that.

With a sudden determination, Jim swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up. There was no milk in the loft, he knew, but with any luck Sandburg had left some teas in the kitchen. 

He intentionally did not turn on a light as he made his way through the living room. He could see without it of course, but he didn't want to see. It had been shocking enough to walk in the living room earlier and see how cold and empty it was. Odd, really, the only things actually gone were some books on the shelf, the tribal masks Blair had hung on one wall, a few knick knacks. 

There was still a box of assorted herb teas in the cupboard over the stove. Jim opened three cupboards before he realized the teakettle was gone with Sandburg. He took a deep breath and pulled out a small saucepan. He filled it with water and placed it on the stove. 

Behind him, the closed French doors to Blair's-- to the spare room-- mocked him silently. He thought about the day his Guide had come home from school to find the doors replacing the curtain that had been there before. An unspoken confirmation of what Jim already knew: that this was Blair's home, too. 

'Until you opened your mouth at the wrong time, without thinking what you were saying,' Jim told himself savagely. 

That wasn't true, though. He had known what he was saying, meant every word of it in that instant of saying it. 

He glanced over at the living room, to the couch where Incacha had died. It seemed like his life had been in a downward spiral ever since. So many things had happened, so quickly, one after another with no time to rest or regroup. Blair had urged him to take some time off after his undercover assignment in the prison was over; Jim had refused. He'd continued to do his job, never noticing his temper was getting shorter and more explosive and more often than not, Blair was on the receiving end of it. Then a murder case had resulted in Jim having to see his father and learn that the elder Ellison had known about Jim's enhanced senses all along, 

Blair had hung in there for all of it. Dr. Ayer had questioned Jim about that, about why Blair was almost foolishly loyal. At the time, Jim had chalked it up to Blair being his Guide, and since he couldn't reveal *that* to the shrink, he'd turned the question aside. But now, in the dark stillness of his kitchen, with the loft seeming too large and much too quiet without the sounds of Blair's heartbeat and breathing coming from behind the closed French doors, Jim considered it again. 

It hit him suddenly, out of the darkness -- Sandburg *wanted* to leave! He'd had enough, enough of the danger, enough of being on the receiving end of Jim's temper, enough of being a magnet for every nutcase that wandered through Cascade. Why else would he have moved out so quickly, without even talking to Jim about it? *He wanted to leave.* 

Panic clenched Jim's stomach; cold sweat broke out all over his body. How could --how would-- he cope without his Guide? 

'No!' Jim told himself fiercely. 'No, that's not it. Yes, maybe he wanted--needed-- to get out of here, away from living with me and working with me, but he won't abandon his Sentinel. I know he won't. He needs me for his Ph.D.' 

But hadn't Blair admitted he already had enough material for ten dissertations?

'It doesn't make any difference. He'll hang in there with me. I just have to-- go easier on him, stop dumping everything on him. Let him know I value him. It will be okay, with him living in his own place he won't have to put up with my temper, and I--I can have quiet, and be alone; maybe that's what I need. Maybe Dr. Ayer is right-- Blair isn't cut out to be a policeman, he doesn't *want* to be a policeman. Everything that's happened, all the shit that has happened to him, he's put up with because of me. Because he knows a Sentinel needs His Guide.'

He startled back to awareness at the crackling hiss as water boiled over on the stove. For fully a minute he stared in the darkness as blue flames blazed orange. Then, with a little shake, he moved to turn the fire off. 

He made the tea but didn't drink it. Long after it had grown cold, he was still sitting at the kitchen table. 

*** ***

Blair grinned cheerfully as the last student left the room. What a great class! Every once in awhile, a teacher -- or a graduate assistant, as the case might be-- was blessed with a class full of students who made it a joy to walk in to teach them. Blair seemed to have a lot of them. He hoped he wasn't going to use up all the good karma before he even got out of school! 

He glanced at his watch. Almost ten-fifteen; Jim would be at the station, catching up on all the reports that had no doubt multiplied on his desk while he was out of town. Maybe Blair should call-- 

'No. He said he needs space.'

His face somber now, Blair hastily shoved the last of his papers in his backpack and left the classroom. He had an appointment with a student at eleven; he'd fill in the time by going to the library and seeing if that book he'd requested had come in yet. 

His mind drifted to the night before. He'd slept well after Jim had left; with no dreams about movie stars murdered in their beds. This morning before he'd left he'd gone back into the study and looked at the portrait of Rita Mallory by the light of day. 'She really was beautiful,' he thought. 'Her eyes almost seem to follow you around the room.' 

The student working the request desk in the library shook her head when Blair asked if the book he wanted--an English translation of some Peruvian texts; he had high hopes of finding Sentinel references in it--had come in yet. Disappointed, Blair turned to leave, then his eyes fell on one of the information terminals. Impulsively, he sat down and typed "Rita Mallory" in at the prompt. 

References started appearing on the screen. Magazine articles, newspaper articles, a biography and three books written about her murder, a reference in "Hollywood Babylon, Volume III." Several of the periodical references were asterisked, indicating they were available on microfiche. Blair made notes of several, then, with a quick glance at his watch, he headed for the stacks. There wasn't enough time to go up to the third floor microfiche machines, but with any luck at least one of the books would be available. 

*** ***

Jim sat down at his desk and groaned at the sight of all the folders in his "IN" box. A stack of pink "while-you-were-out" message forms were neatly held down by his stapler. He quickly glanced through the pile of mail and determined that none of it was urgent, then picked up the pink message slips. He read the top one twice, feeling the frown crease his forehead. Raising his head, he looked around, but Major Crimes was oddly empty this morning. Simon was in his office and Jim smelled fresh coffee; he rose and briskly walked over to the half-open door.

"Simon?"

"Hey, Jim, come in. My cousin just gave me some new Colombian Roast. You look like you could use a cup." 

Jim came farther into the office and sank into a chair. "Yeah, well, I didn't get much sleep. Jet lag, I guess." 

"Sure it wasn't just that you were missing your roommate?"

Jim didn't bother to dignify that with an answer. He held out the pink slip of paper. "What's this mean?" 

Simon glanced at it, his face showing nothing, but Jim could hear his heart rate increase. "Says you have an appointment with Craig Stephens at ten-thirty." He glanced at his watch. "He should be here any time."

"Craig Stephens, that guy who was on the cover of "Time" last month? The one who owns Medcomp?" 

"It wasn't just "Time." "People," "Newsweek," "USA Today." "Fortune 500" lists him as one of the "Young Millionaires to Watch." 

"Watch what?"

"Turn into billionaires, I guess," Simon answered dryly. "But I guess this guy really is a certified genius, graduated from medical school at age twenty-two, then went back and got Ph.D. in something to do with computers. People who know say some of his software will eventually eliminate the need for animal or human experimentation for new drugs and procedures. He's being talked about for a Nobel Prize." 

"So why is he coming to see me? What's he even doing in Cascade? I thought he lived down in Seacouver." 

"He does. And he's coming to see you because his wife has been missing for five days. Last time anybody saw her was Thursday morning; she was staying at the Cascade Hyatt Regency." 

"Kidnapping?" Jim asked alertly.

Simon shook his head. "I don't think so. No ransom demands, no signs of foul play. She's just listed as a Missing Person." 

Jim frowned. "Then why Major Crimes?" he asked. "Why not Missing Persons?"

"Because, Dr. Stephens wants the 'best man' available on the case. The Governor told the Mayor who told the Chief, who told me... that that means *you.*" Simon glanced out the door. "Speak of the devil, there's the good doctor himself." 

Jim turned as Simon waved the newcomer in. Craig Stephens was thirty-six, he remembered from the "Time" article. About Jim's height and build, he looked like he worked out regularly. The guy was almost movie star handsome, but, as Jim acknowledged Simon's introduction and moved forward to shake his hand, he registered the tell-tale signs of extreme nervousness.

"I do appreciate your time, Detective," Stephens said. He had a very soft voice and Jim noticed that he looked everywhere but at him. 

Simon handed Jim a manila file folder. "I hadn't had a chance to put this on your desk yet. It's the file on Mrs. Stephens. Dr. Stephens, why don't you sit down here? Care for coffee?" 

Jim hastily leafed through the file as Simon poured out another cup of coffee and topped off his own and Jim's cups. According to her photo, Melissa Stephens was a strikingly beautiful woman, with shoulder-length dark brown hair and large blue eyes. She was thirty-five, he read, five-foot-seven, 104 pounds. Frowning, Jim glanced back at the photo. She didn't look underweight in it. He glanced up at Stephens. "Your wife has lost a lot of weight recently?" 

Stephens actually flushed. "Yes, I'm afraid she has. Too much. She... hasn't been well." 

"She's ill?" Simon asked in a surprised tone. 

"Yes... well, she's been... under some stress over the last several months."

"Stress," Jim repeated.

"Stress," Stephens confirmed.

Jim picked up the file again and leafed through it. A note on the bottom of a page caught his eye. 'Oldest daughter, age seventeen, killed in November.' "Would this 'stress' include the death of your daughter?"

"That... was the beginning of the stress," Stephens conceded. "Melissa-- my wife-- was inconsolable when Rebeckeh... when the accident... they were very close." 

'Does this guy ever complete a sentence?' "If you don't mind telling us, how did your daughter die?" 

For the first time, Stephens looked directly at Jim, albeit very briefly. A spasm of anger quickly crossed his handsome face and was instantly gone. "She was killed in a car accident," he said flatly. After a long pause, he went on, "She was dating a young man. She wanted to stop seeing him for awhile. Date other boys. She told him and he... he took it badly. The police said the car was going ninety miles an hour when he lost control. Rebeckeh was killed instantly." 

"I'm sorry," Jim said, meaning it, but knowing the words were no comfort. He waited, then went on, "Why was your wife in Cascade, Dr. Stephens?"

"She was looking for someone." Stephens sighed, lifted one hand to rub his eyes. "Detective, Melissa's parents both died soon after Rebeckeh did. Melissa was devastated. While she was going through their papers, Melissa discovered that she had been adopted as a baby. The people she had grown up calling "Mom" and "Dad" weren't really her natural parents at all. Learning this... unsettled her. She became obsessed with finding out who her 'real' parents were. I advised against it but she didn't listen to me. She discovered she had been born in Cascade." 

"Oh. So she was looking for... who? Her natural mother? Did she know the name?" 

Stephens shook his head. "I don't know. Melissa knew I disapproved of her quest and she didn't discuss it with me. I was in Washington DC when she left." 

Jim sensed a familiar heartbeat and looked up to see Blair enter the bullpen. His partner stopped at his desk and looked around quizzically. Jim heard someone say, "He's in Simon's office." Blair nodded and seated himself at the desk, pulled a thick green book from his backpack and started to read. Jim smiled unconsciously, the dread that had been bothering him all morning vanishing now. With a sigh, he turned back to Stephens. Reviewing his notes, he frowned. Something didn't add up. 

*** ***

Blair saw Jim closeted in Simon's office with the captain and another man. Deciding he wasn't needed in there, the young man plunked himself down behind Jim's desk and pulled "Hollywood Babylon" out of his backpack. He'd been surprised to find it in the University library. Before he could open it, his eyes fell on a file on Jim's desk. By now, he knew the police department filing system as well as he knew his name. Red file meant murder case. And the bright yellow sticker on the front marked it as "Unsolved." Curious, Blair opened the file and scanned the first page for the victim's name. 

Victims, in this case. Rita Mallory, age 34. Nico Rossini, age 42. Pamela Rossini, age 16. Trevor Winfeld, age 5. 

Blair shivered. He turned the page to the initial officer's report.

The date on the report was May 29, 1967. Police had been summoned to the home of movie actress Rita Mallory by her housekeeper, who reported finding the body of Miss Mallory's boyfriend, Nico Rossini, in the front entranceway. Rossini, listed in the report as being an "independent businessman", had been shot twice in the heart at close range. In addition, he had various injuries "consistent with falling down the stairs". Upstairs were three more bodies: Rossini's daughter and Mallory's son were both found in their beds. The girl had been smothered, apparently with her own pillow. The little boy had been stabbed once in the throat. Down the hall, sprawled on the carpet in front of the fireplace--Blair remembered that room, the fireplace was glossy pink marble -- was the body of Rita Mallory herself. "Multiple stab wounds in chest, neck, abdomen, and pelvis." Blair flipped the page and found himself looking at a black and white picture. It took his stunned brain a few minutes to realize that he was seeing the body of Rita Mallory. He slammed the file shut, feeling nausea tear at his throat. 

"Chief?"

Startled, Blair looked up to see Jim standing over him. The detective's eyes fell to the closed folder on the desk and a look of understanding crossed his features. "You opened it?" 

Blair nodded. 

"Sorry, Sandburg, I hadn't had a chance to see it yet. Someone must have brought it up after I went into Simon's office. Is it bad?" 

"It's not too pleasant," Blair admitted. He touched the yellow sticker on the outside of the folder. "They never caught anyone?" 

"Don't think so. I'll have to read it, I have only the vaguest memories of it, but I do remember one of my instructors talking about the case when I was in the Academy. Cascade doesn't have too many unsolved murder cases, especially not one that remains unsolved for thirty years. Rita Mallory was in the process of getting divorced from some big yahoo in Hollywood and she'd taken up with a guy with Mob ties. The opinion at the time was that it was a Mob hit, or maybe that the husband had hired it done, but nothing could ever be proved." 

Blair stood up so that Jim could sit in his own chair and picked up the clipped sheets of paper the detective had dropped on the desk. He looked at the photo. "Who's this?" 

"Melissa Stephens," sighed Jim, sinking down into his chair. "As in Mrs. Dr. Craig Stephens." 

Blair arched his eyebrows. "That guy on "20/20" last week? Man, he's supposed to be a given for the Nobel Prize next year. What's the deal with his wife?" 

"She's missing."

"Kidnapped?" Blair's eyes widened.

Jim shook his head tiredly. "Don't think so. It looks to me as if she just decided to lose herself. I don't know, though, something doesn't add up." He rubbed his eyes, then massaged his temples. 

"What is with you?" Blair asked sharply. "Man, you look awful. Didn't you get any sleep at all last night?" 

"What makes you say that?" Jim snapped. He caught himself. "Sorry, Chief, didn't mean to jump on you." He glanced at his watch. "Hey, did you have lunch yet? What say I buy?" 

Blair stared at him, then his face slowly relaxed into a hesitant grin. "Okay, sure. Hey, did you see the paper this morning? The re-release of "Grease" opens tonight. Want to go?" 

"Grease?" Jim repeated. "The movie, you mean? I've seen it on TV."

"I have too, but it's different on the big screen. Come on, big guy," Blair coaxed. Jim laughed and agreed. 

When they were in Jim's truck, headed to a nearby deli, Blair asked quietly, "So, why didn't you sleep last night?" 

Jim hesitated, caught off guard and groping for an answer. "Uh, I don't know. Jet lag, maybe. Nothing to worry about." 

Blair didn't look convinced but he let the subject go.

*** ***

Blair fumbled with his keys, finally getting the right one inserted in the lock. He'd noticed before that the back door lock stuck; tonight it took him three tries before the door finally opened on the pitch-black kitchen. Blair silently cursed his forgetfulness. He'd meant to leave the kitchen light on but apparently he'd forgotten. The light switch was across the room on the wall opposite the door. Arms outstretched in front of him, Blair cautiously felt his way across the kitchen, stumbling once over a chair before his searching hand encountered the switch. With a sigh of relief, he flipped it on and cheerful light flooded the room. 

Blair glanced at the blue-and-white delft clock, ticking merrily away above the sink. Almost one in the morning. It had been past seven when Jim had finally been satisfied with the inroads they'd made on all the backed-up work piled on his desk. Since they'd missed the early movie, Jim insisted on buying dinner at Blair's favorite Italian restaurant. Then he'd wanted ice cream after the late movie was over. 

It had been a good evening; like so many they'd spent together. Blair was actually surprised when instead of going to the loft, Jim had driven him back to the station so Blair could pick up his car. For most of the evening he'd actually forgotten that he'd moved out. The Volvo hadn't wanted to start, and Jim had asked if Blair wanted to spend the night at the loft. Before Blair could answer the engine had turned over. Blair didn't know whether to be glad or sorry. 

He put the teapot on to boil and rummaged in the cupboard next to the stove. Funny. He must have left the chamomile tea at the loft. Deciding he wasn't in the mood for tea anyway, Blair turned off the burner and then the kitchen lights, heading into his bedroom. 

The thud his backpack made as it hit the floor reminded him that "Hollywood Babylon" was still inside. After brushing his teeth and changing into a T-shirt and boxers for sleeping, he propped up both pillows against the headboard and climbed in bed to read. 

He'd just skimmed the book earlier, trying to overcome his revulsion at the gossipy, sensationalistic way it was written. Now he turned straight to chapter twelve, "The Charmed Life and Grisly Death of Rita Mallory." Within minutes he was thoroughly engrossed in the story of the girl born in Cascade as Mary Margaret O'Malley. Mary Margaret, nicknamed "Rita" by her Irish-immigrant father, was the third of five children. At age nineteen she had left Cascade, and hitchhiked to Hollywood to follow her dream of being an actress. Unlike hundreds of other girls with the same dream, Rita not only had the talent, she had the brains to keep herself out of trouble while she waited for her big break. She got a job as a typist in a lawyer's office. The lawyer did a lot of work for MGM studios, so before long the stunningly beautiful receptionist was reading -- and obtaining-- bit parts. Over the next five years, Mary Margaret, now re-christened Rita Mallory, worked for the lawyer and obtained increasingly larger parts. Then, she was cast as the lead in "Satin Bedspread". The film went on to become the highest grossing film that year and earned Rita her first Academy Award nomination. 

As beautiful as she was on film, the unknown author gushed, there was something about Rita that the camera could never capture, an allure that made men her devoted slaves. She carried on discreet affairs with many of her leading men, although the love affair never outlasted the filming of the movie. 

Rita attracted the interest of wealthy and influential producer Roger Winfield, older than she, and married. Winfield cast Rita in three films, always encouraging her to become his mistress. Possibly believing that he would be much more helpful as a husband than as a lover, Rita refused, instead embarking on an affair with a young, unknown actor she'd met while filming "Enchanted Summer", in the role that eventually earned her the Oscar. It was widely rumored that Rita had become pregnant by her young lover, infuriating Winfield. Almost overnight, the young actor found himself blacklisted, unable to get a job washing windows at a movie studio, much less acting in a movie. Winfield divorced his wife and married his star. The marriage resulted in a son, Trevor, but was a disaster otherwise, marked by loud and public brawls. By 1966, Rita had left her husband and returned to her hometown with her small son. She bought a mansion with an ocean view, made another film, "Cold Start," and became involved with Rico Rossini, a good looking cad with a teenaged daughter, no visible means of support, and widely rumored underworld ties.... 

A gigantic yawn almost split Blair's jaw. He glanced at the clock and was startled to see that he'd been reading for over an hour. Reluctantly giving in to his body's need for rest, he slid a scrap of paper into the book to mark his place and reached out to switch off the bedside light. 

*** ***

'Somebody up there *really* hates me.'

Jim Ellison flopped over yet again, pounding his pillow into a shape closely approximating a football. It didn't help. 

Nothing seemed to be helping.

Jim Ellison, for the second night in a row, couldn't sleep.

At least last night he'd dozed occasionally, even if it was only to waken suddenly. Tonight his eyelids stubbornly refused to close at all. 

Finally, he sat up with a sigh, reaching over to twist on the bed side lamp. He didn't need the light to see but it was comforting nonetheless. The loft seemed so empty. So noisy... the hum of the refrigerator, the moan of the air purifier downstairs; the rumbling as the water heater reheated; the ticking of the clock in the kitchen; the roar of traffic on the--- 

Jim's eyes jerked open. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he realized how close he'd come to zoning . What was the deal with his hearing, anyway? He couldn't seem to turn the dial down, it was like he was straining to hear something that wasn't there to hear. What? 

'Sandburg.' The realization hit Jim hard. Sandburg wasn't there, no tapping of his laptop keys, no whisper of turning pages. No rhythmic heartbeat or steady breathing to assure the Sentinel the Guide was close by-- 

Jim caught himself again. Determinedly, he shoved back the covers and padded downstairs. Run water in a saucepan, put the pan on the stove. A teabag in a mug. The mug he pulled down from the cupboard was a dark blue one Blair had given Jim the first Christmas they knew each other. Jim stared at the mug, then replaced it on the shelf. Turning the burner off the stove, he reached into the refrigerator for a beer. 

He settled himself on the couch, grabbed the remote control and aimlessly clicked away, finally settling on an infomercial for a food dehydrator. Turning the volume so low that it was all but nonexistent, even to his Sentinel hearing, he pulled the basket with magazines over. Sandburg had cleaned the place up before he left; Jim could still smell the cleaning solution when he came in, and he'd piled all the magazines in the basket. Jim leafed through them until he found what he was looking for, the Newsweek with Dr. Craig Stephens on the cover. Sipping his beer, he thumbed through the pages until he reached the article. He didn't read it as much as study the photos: Craig Stephens and wife (holding hands, Jim noted) "Eating lunch on the run in London." Stephens speaking before the North American Association of Rehabilitation Engineers, his wife sitting behind him. Background photos: a teen-aged Stephens winning the California State High School Science Fair, accepting the first prize "with his girlfriend by his side"--obviously a younger Melissa Stephens. Stephens in a graduation robe, proudly holding two diplomas in his right hand while his left was around his obviously-pregnant, blissfully beaming wife. A studio portrait of the whole family, the teen-age daughter the image of her mother in the earlier photos; the two boys dressed up for the occasion in dark blue suits. The youngest one had one sprig of red hair standing straight up. 

The last picture took up a full page, a full-color representation of Stephens testifying before the House Subcommittee on Medical Research. Seated in the first row of the observation gallery was his wife, wearing a navy-blue suit. The caption overleaf read "Stephens often refers to the relationship between medical researchers and funding source as 'A marriage of unequals'. He contrasts that to his own marriage to wife Melissa, which he likens to 'Body' and 'Soul'. "A body without a soul has a hollow within." 

Picture perfect family. Picture perfect life. But something had caused that woman to walk away from her husband and surviving children. Where were the boys, anyway? Jim made a mental note to ask Stephens in the morning. Maybe they had heard from their mother. 

His eyes kept going back to the family picture. There was something about it... something... shaking his head in disgust, Jim let the magazine fall closed. He tilted up his bottle to get the last sip of beer. 

"A hollow within. Interesting phrase." What did it mean, really? Empty? Lost? Stephens had looked both empty and lost at the station today.

Jim slowly climbed the stairs to his bed. He doubted he'd sleep any better now than he did before. A hollow within. 

Funny. Kind of described this apartment without Sandburg.

*** ***

Blair bolted awake, panic rushing through him.

'What was that noise?'

He strained to listen over the thundering of his heart.

Velvet blackness wrapped around him. There was no light in the room. Blair frowned. As his limbs woke again from their frozen panic, he turned his head to look at the digital alarm clock by the bed, but the comforting green glow was absent. Blair reached for the bedside lamp, clicked it on. Nothing. 

'Power failure?'

The noise again. Blair stiffened, then relaxed and even laughed a little at his own foolishness as he heard the wind whistling around the corner of the house. Dr. Martinez had warned him the electricity was liable to go out in bad weather, wind or rain. 

The thumping noise had probably just been a loose shutter or storm window.

Well, he was wide-awake now. He might as well get up and check. He'd bought a heavy-duty flashlight just for occasions like this. 

He felt a draft in the hallway and followed it to the open door of the study. Playing the flashlight along the room, he smiled in relief as one of the heavy oak shutters moved in the breeze. "No wonder!" Blair exclaimed aloud, walking over to close it. A pane of glass had been knocked completely out. Blair hadn't noticed before because the shutters had always been fastened. He took a quick look out the window; sure enough, fragments of glass glittered in the beam of his flashlight. 

Blair pushed the shutters together and fastened the brass clamp that held them that way. "I'll replace the glass this Saturday," he said, out loud again, finding his own voice oddly comforting in the vast silence of this house. 'Maybe Jim will come over and spend the day.' He shook his head. 'Jim needs space. I've got to give him that. If he feels too pressured he could cut me off entirely. I can't let that happen--Jim may be doing better with his senses but a Sentinel has to have a Guide.' His mind shuddered away from the picture that it had seen too often lately, Jim, the first day that had met, zoned, completely unaware in the path of the garbage truck. It could have just as easily been in the path of a bullet. 

As he turned away from the window, the flashlight played on a open door at the bottom of the wall of bookshelves door. Surprised, Blair knelt on the floor and looked into a deep cupboard. There were a number of large, leather-bound books stacked in there. Blair pulled one out and leafed through it, holding the flashlight so he could see. Pictures, newspaper clippings, programs, publicity stills. Blair panned the flashlight so he could see the faded writing on the first page. 1959-1960. Below it was a magazine advertisement, in full color, for the film "Enchanted Summer". An artist's representation of a woman, obviously Rita Mallory, staring into an impossibly-blue ocean while a young man walked down the beach away from her. Down at the bottom, in bold black print, the credits: Starring Rita Mallory, directed by Roger Winfield, Co-Starring Brian Rush, Debra Davies, Colin LaMonte. Blair recognized the name of Debra : she'd played the family matriarch in a western he'd watched a few times as a kid-- and a lot more as an adult-- especially since moving in with Jim. The reruns were shown on one of the local channels. 

Curious, Blair leafed through the book. Rita Mallory, if that was who had put this scrapbook together, kept everything: newspaper clippings if her name was even listed as "Also attending the party were"; publicity stills in black and white and color; formal portraits and candid snapshots. Blair idly glanced at a cutting from "Variety" announcing that "A Spokesman for Screen Siren Rita Mallory has announced that she has withdrawn from filming "Emerald Isle" due to ill health. Miss Mallory is suffering from mononucleosis and will be recuperating for the next few months at an unknown location. Director Roger Winfield announced that Miss Mallory will be replaced in the role of Claire by Debra Davies, who co-starred with Miss Mallory in the film "Enchanted Summer" last year." 

Blair yawned and rubbed at his eyes. Deciding that if he was going to be worth anything through the day he'd better get some sleep, he replaced the scrapbook, then closed the cupboard before going back to his room.

Sleep came quickly.

When he woke again, the bedside light was on and sunshine streamed through the chinks in the shutters. The clock was flashing "12:00" and Blair reached for his watch, bolting out of bed when he saw the time. "Shit!" he exclaimed, grabbing a clean shirt, underwear and jeans and leaping into the bathroom. He showered fast, dressed, and pulled his still-wet hair back with a rubber band. Shoving feet into running shoes, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and detoured by the refrigerator for a carton of yogurt to eat while driving. 

There wasn't any.

'I know I bought some the other day.'

Blair pulled out the milk carton and looked behind it. Nothing. And it wasn't like the refrigerator was so full that the contents weren't obvious at first glance. 

He shrugged and leaned down to get an orange out of the produce drawer. There was one there and he frowned again. 'Weren't there two yesterday? Maybe not... maybe that was the day before.' Still, he was uneasy as he started to peel the fruit. Then he caught sight of the clock above the sink and all thoughts of yogurt and oranges disappeared as he slammed the door shut and raced for his car, making sure to leave the kitchen light on this time. 

*** ***

**[Continued in Part Two...](suekelley3b.htm) **

* * *


	2. A Hollow Within (Part Two),

Irritation rose within Jim as he came into the bullpen and spotted Craig Stephens sitting in front of his desk. 'I don't need him this early.' His mind was sluggish from lack of sleep and his temper correspondingly short. Swallowing his ire with an effort, he stopped to draw a cup of coffee from the community pot, since he could see Simon wasn't in his office as yet, then made his way over to his desk. 

"Dr. Stephens," he greeted the man as he sat down. His tired eyes studied the wrecked man opposite. 

Craig Stephens looked as if he had as little sleep as Jim in the last 48 hours. His hands shook as he offered the detective an envelope. "My secretary has been having my mail, from both the office and home, forwarded up to me. This is Missy's credit card statement. There's a charge on there for a private detective here in Cascade. I thought-- maybe--" 

A platinum MasterCard, with easily fifty charges in the last month. Jim ran a practiced eye down the list. "Is this your wife's only credit card?" 

"She has several, but she rarely uses anything but that card. Except for gas... she has two or three oil company cards she'd use for that."

The last charge was to Aldrich and Jones Investigations, Inc. Jim had met both men; Ty Aldrich had been with the Cascade PD for five years before leaving to open a private agency with his college roommate. A quick glance at this watch, and then Jim stood, reaching for his keys.

Stephens stood too. "What's wrong? Where are you going?"

"I'm going to go have a face-to-face chat with them," Jim answered, referring to the private detectives. He was taken aback when Stephens started to follow him. 

"I'm going with you," Stephens declared, his voice shaking. "I can't just sit here, detective, do you understand that? And I can't sit around the hotel." 

Jim hesitated, but he had to concede the danger was minimal. He wasn't at all worried about dealing with Ty, but Peter Jones would probably be more willing to open up his files to the husband of the woman that had employed him. "All right, Doctor, but you do as I say. You got that?" 

Stephens nodded as he followed him to the elevator.

'God, this guy is more hyper than Sandburg even,' Jim thought, fifteen minutes later. 

Craig Stephens drummed his fingers nervously on the passenger door of Jim's pick-up. He shifted in the seat, unbuckled his seat belt, re-belted, rolled down the window, rolled it back up, rolled it down. His breathing was driving Jim nuts: fast and erratic as if he'd just run a marathon.

Jim remembered the question he'd meant to ask and he brought it up abruptly. "Where are your kids? Any chance your wife may have contacted them?"

"Don't you think I thought of that?" Stephens responded sourly. "They're at boarding school in Connecticut. I call them every night, they haven't heard from her, and they don't know she's missing. I've had to come up with some pretty creative excuses for them not to know something's wrong." 

"Boarding school?" Jim repeated.

"Yes. What's wrong with that?" Stephens sounded more than a little defensive. "It's a great school. The science curriculum was designed by some people from MIT! My God, if I could have gone to a prep school like that--" 

According to Newsweek, Stephens had earned his MD at 22, his Ph.D. less than three years later. Jim had a hard time imagining how he could have done it much faster, even if he had gone to St. Andrews Preparatory School in Connecticut, rather than Bayside High School in San Diego, California. He didn't say anything. Stephens, too, relapsed into silence until they exited the freeway. Then he said, "Melissa was against sending the boys to school. We--- discussed it." 

"Oh," Jim said, totally at a loss. "And then she agreed?"

"No. She never agreed. She wants them at home."

"How old are they?"

"Joshua is twelve and Christopher is fourteen."

"Oh," Jim said again. Personally he thought that was a little young to be away from home. He put on his left turn signal for the entrance to the Kilburg Building. Aldrich and Jones Investigations was on the sixth floor. 

Luck was with him. Ty Aldrich was in the reception area when they entered. He recognized Jim and grinned, then his eyes moved to Stephens and the grin vanished. He gazed at the scientist with something very close to dislike in his blue eyes. After the first greetings, the private detective immediately ushered them into his private office. Waving them to matching green armchairs, Aldrich seated himself behind a handsome cherry desk and regarded them solemnly. "And what can I do for Cascade's finest and Dr. Craig Stephens of Medcomp?" 

"You know me?" Stephens asked, surprised.

"I know your wife," Aldrich corrected. "A very nice lady. And somehow, I imagine she has something to do with this visit." 

"Dr. Stephens hasn't had any contact with his wife in six days," Jim broke in. "She's officially listed as a missing person. We have reason to believe she may have hired someone in this agency." 

"That's no secret. She did." Aldrich was studying Stephens, then he glanced at Jim. "However, Dr. Stephens is incorrect when he says he hasn't had any contact with his wife for six days. He spoke to her late Thursday night." 

Surprised, Jim in his turn looked at the other man, whose face was coloring purplish red. "Doctor?" 

Stephens stared at Aldrich. "Did you see her--after?"

"After you pretty much destroyed her? No, I didn't. She had an appointment for ten a.m. Friday. We were to discuss how to proceed with her case. She called me very early Friday morning, extremely upset. She was so upset that I was worried about her, and asked her to meet me for breakfast. She refused. She said she had to do some thinking, that she was checking out of the hotel and that she would be in touch. That was the last time I heard from her." He opened a drawer and pulled out a green file folder. "I imagine this is what you are wanting. Of course, Detective Ellison is perfectly aware that this is confidential information and that I *could* refuse to release it to the police without a court order. I'll save you the trouble of getting one. Only because I like this woman, and I'm worried about her. I've done some investigating on my own, but I can't find a trace of her since noon Friday. That's when she rented a car from Enterprise Rental over on Third Street. She took their special fifteen-day offer, so of course the car hasn't been turned in yet." 

"What kind of car?"

"A Ford Taurus, 1997, light blue." Aldrich was still staring at Stephens, with something like contempt in his gaze. "You know, *Doctor,* I have to admit, I don't get you. Most men would kill to have a woman like that, and you--" 

"You don't understand!" Aldrich broke in desperately. "I never meant to hurt her." 

"How the hell did you think you *weren't* going to hurt her?"

Jim was starting to feel as if he were invisible. He cleared his throat in order to get their attention. "What did Mrs. Stephens hire you for?" He was pretty sure he knew the answer. 

"She wanted to find out who her birth parents were," Aldrich answered promptly. "She had recently discovered she was adopted as a baby. She knew she had been born in Cascade, so it made sense to her to hire a Cascade firm to look into the matter." 

"And did you find out who her birth parents were?"

Aldrich opened the file. "As you know, Detective Ellison--or maybe you don't--in this state when a baby is adopted an amended birth certificate is filed, with the names of the adoptive parents instead of the birth parents. It's a common practice in many states although it has recently come under fire. In Washington, the original birth certificate is sealed and is only supposed to be opened by court order." Aldrich pulled a piece of fax paper out of the file and handed it to Jim. "I trust the Cascade PD won't suddenly become interested in how I got that?" 

"I'll assume you went about it legally, at least," Jim returned in the same tone. He studied the birth certificate for a girl child born September 16, 1960. He read the parents' names aloud. "Mary M. O'Malley, mother; Brett Carstairs, father." He raised his eyebrows as he glanced back at Aldrich. "So who were they?" 

Aldrich shook his head. "I 'acquired' that on Wednesday, and gave the information to Mrs. Stephens. Her appointment on Friday was to determine how we proceeded. I told her, as I will tell you, that I very much doubt that was *really* her father's name. More likely it was just a name her mother put down." 

"Why do you say that?" Stephens questioned, sounding interested for the first time. 

"Because Brett Carstairs was a character in a movie that was extremely popular right around then. Won the Oscar for best picture that year. "Enchanted Summer", I think, was the name of it." 

Blair arrived at Hargrove Hall to find the lawn outside in chaos, with students and teachers alike milling around in confusion. No one was going into the building, and as Blair approached he caught a whiff of a virulent stench that almost made him gag. "There was this big bang!" a student told him, her face flushed with excitement. "And then this God-awful smell! Everyone just ran for the doors." 

Blair caught sight of Dr. Martinez, in a huddle with several professors and one or two other graduate students. He made his way to them, and saw a petite dark-haired woman yelling into a cell phone. After a second, he recognized her as Dr. Emily Turner, the newly-appointed vice-president for Academic Affairs. She clicked her cell-phone shut and turned to Martinez. "Don, Maintenance has no idea how long this is going to take. Just cancel classes for the rest of today and put signs up on the doors. It would be too chaotic to try to move all the classes into different buildings around campus today. We'll decide what to do about tomorrow when the plumbers have some idea of how long this will take." 

Martinez nodded his agreement and delegated burly Dr. Jenson to announce the news at the top of his considerable lungs. The Department Secretary had had the presence of mind to bring out several pieces of pasteboard and some magic markers. As Martinez turned to leave, he caught sight of Blair and beckoned him over. "Blair! I was hoping to see you today. How are things going out at the house?" 

"Oh, okay, fine. I found a broken window last night but I'll get it repaired," Blair assured him. 

Martinez looked uncomfortable. "There's something I probably should have mentioned before--" he started. 

"That it used to be Rita Mallory's house? That it's where she died?"

"You know?" Martinez looked chagrined. "I'm sorry, I should have mentioned it earlier. Jacob--my friend who owns it-- he was afraid if the press got wind of it being empty they'd drag up that whole story again, or students would turn it into a macabre museum. How did you find out?"

"It wasn't too hard, it looks as if the house hasn't changed too much since she owned it. Her portrait on the wall, scrapbooks in the study."

"My God." A thunderstruck expression covered Martinez's face. "I never thought about that. It's been years since I was out there, and then I was only in the kitchen. Jacob inherited that house from his uncle, Roger Winfield, who was married to Rita Mallory. They were separated, but not divorced, when the murders occurred. Jacob said his uncle was always crazy about the woman--plus his son was killed with her. He was something of a recluse after that, holed up in that house with his memories until he got so infirm Jacob had to put him in a care facility." 

"It doesn't bother me," Blair assured him, stifling the little voice inside that shouted 'Liar!' He went on, "I was reading about her last night, and about the murders. They never caught anyone?" 

Martinez shook his head. "Jacob and I were roommates at USC when the tragedy occurred. He was devastated by it; his parents were dead and he was very close to his uncle and to Rita Mallory. He'd been up for a visit not two weeks prior to the murders. The police always seemed to think that maybe Roger had something to do with it, but they never could prove anything and he was never charged. Jacob, of course, blamed associates of that gangster she took up with when she and Roger split up." He sighed. "I met her once, did you know? A totally fascinating woman. Something about her eyes... you almost felt as if she could crawl into your soul..." he broke off and looked embarrassed. "Goodness, I sound like some old coot..." He turned as Dr. Turner approached him, her face tense and her cell phone clenched in her hand. Blair stepped away. 

What to do with a free day? He had tons of paperwork but he was totally disinclined to do it; plus, Campus Security had arrived and were locking the entrances. Blair remembered that he had stuffed "Hollywood Babylon" into his backpack. He'd return it to the library and see if the other books about Rita Mallory had been turned in yet. 

*** ***

"All those books were checked out five days ago. They won't be due back until the 20th." 

Blair stifled a groan. "Joni, I really need to see those books." He fixed the full effect of what Jim called his puppy-dog eyes on the student working the library desk. Whether it was that, or the fact that a semester before, the A he'd given Joni Rasmussin in Cultural Anthropology had boosted her to the Dean's List, it worked. After clicking a few keys on her computer, Joni told him the books he wanted were checked out to a student named Ashley Cunningham who resided in the Chi-Omega sorority house on campus. Blair beamed at her, thanking her for the information, and went directly to the campus phone. The older woman who answered the phone--the House "mother", Blair presumed-- told him that Ashley was in class but that she would be glad to give her a message. Blair left his cell phone number and rang off, frustrated. He turned to leave the library. 

"Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair looked up to see the other student that had been working the desk with Joni. He didn't know this girl, who was taller than he and had very long hair of a purplish-red shade that could not have been natural. "Yes?" Blair smiled at her. 

"Umm, I heard you talking to Joni about those books, the ones about Rita Mallory?" 

"Yes?" Blair encouraged her.

"Well, there's a professor in the theater department that knows a lot about her. He's listed in the acknowledgments in her biography. Dr. Larry." The student caught herself and laughed. "I mean, Dr. Hughes. Larry Hughes. Just tell him Arlinna Majors sent you." 

*** ***

"I'm sorry, Dr. Larry isn't in right now. Can I leave him a message?"

"Do you know when he will be back?" Blair asked, disappointed.

"No, not really." The department secretary glanced down at the schedule taped to her desk. "His next class isn't until three, but I imagine he'll be back long before then. You're welcome to wait." 

Blair hesitated, then he caught sight of a poster on the wall advertising the "Daniel and Martha Herring Film Library. That gave him an idea. He knew the university had an extensive collection of films. Holding his breath for the answer, he asked the secretary if there were any of Rita Mallory's films among the collection. 

"Sure." She didn't even have to look on the computer. "Rita Mallory was from Cascade, you know, she died here even. Her movies were some of the first ones we got. As a matter of fact--" she broke off to type an entry into the computer, then nodded with a pleased smile. "I thought so. Dr. Padrogi's class is viewing one of her movies right now in Amph 1. You've missed the first hour or so, but if you want you can sit in and watch the rest of it. Just sit in the left hand section as you go in the door, so that Dr. Padrogi won't think you're a student--they'll be in the center section." 

Blair glanced at his watch. A little after eleven; Jim wasn't expecting him at the station before two. "Which movie is it?" 

"Enchanted Summer."

*** ***

"Melissa thinks I'm having an affair."

The words came out of nowhere. Jim was concentrating on driving; lunchtime traffic was heavy around the downtown area. Craig Stephens hadn't said a word since they left Ty Aldrich's office until he broke the silence with his calm pronouncement. 

"Are you?" Jim asked evenly.

Stephens swung around to look at him, his face ravaged by fear or grief or possibly some darker emotion. "I love my wife," he spat out. Then his face crumpled and he turned his head. Jim smelled the tang of salt and knew the man was trying to conceal tears. "An affair," he said finally, "implies something--beautiful. Or at the very least, romantic. What I did was an animal act. It wasn't love, it wasn't even lust. It was just sex. I betrayed Melissa's trust, I broke my marriage vows, all for a half hour with a woman that couldn't hold a candle to my wife, in bed or anywhere else." 

In spite of himself, Jim had to like the guy for not making excuses, not trying to shift the blame to his wife or to the other woman. "How did she find out?" he asked finally. 

"I have no idea," Stephens answered, his voice very soft. "She asked me, when she called me that night. I stumbled and stammered and tried to lie, and of course she knew. She hung up before I could tell her the truth." He sighed. "It's no excuse, and I knew that at the time, but ever since our daughter was killed, Melissa and I have been... I don't know, going through the motions, maybe? I threw myself into my work. Then, when her parents were killed and Melissa found out she had been adopted... she withdrew from me, became so remote and like a stranger. I don't expect you to understand this, detective, but it terrified me. I define myself in terms of who I am to her, who I am to our kids, who I am to the company. And suddenly, I was *nothing* to Melissa. The most important part of *my* world, and it was like I didn't even exist in hers. I wanted to ask her, why do you have to know who your real parents were? What does it matter? What matters is who *we* are now, to each other." He fell silent, then his eyes met Jim's. "But I didn't ask her. I didn't support her in her search, I hurt her as much as she could be hurt... and now I can't find her." 

*** ***

Blair was transported into another world.

The woman glided across the sand to greet her young lover. The camera was tight on her face, on those incredible emerald eyes, huge and intense. Her mouth, drawn tight with fear as she begged him to forgive her, to forget her, to not tell her husband, the rich, elderly politician, about their three months of love, about their nights making love on the cold sand, under the brilliant stars, while her husband was in Washington and her children frolicked at summer camp. ~This has been the most wonderful time of my life. I love you as I have loved no other. But this is not real!~ 

~It *is* real.~ Her lover's voice, cold, his eyes alive with rage and hurt. A young man, not much more than a child himself, reacting with a child's hurt pride when she said she must leave. ~If you love me, come with me!~ 

~I can't!~ A scream, torn from the depths of her soul. ~I can't! He and the children are my life!~ 

~Then what was I?~

Tears spilling from her eyes, marring her face. ~You are my soul. You always will be.~ 

The two of them stared at each other, separated by four feet of sand and a lifetime of expectations and obligations. The waves, glittering in silver moonlight, lapped at their ankles. 

~Please, don't do this. Don't betray me.~ Her anguished whisper. 

~You betrayed me.~ His voice, hot with rage and a childish vindictiveness. He turned to leave her. Her scream tore the air behind him, lost in the crashing of the waves. 

**********************

He kept walking, away from her. He didn't turn as he heard splashing.

Sunlight streamed across the sands. A group of people, solemn for such a beautiful day, such a beautiful place, standing around something. A body, lying supine, red hair twisted with seaweed, the incredible eyes long since closed forever, the beautiful face frozen forever in a death that she had embraced rather than lose the life she once had. And standing over her, side by side, was the husband and the young lover. Neither knowing the other. Both shattered and lost in their separate grief...

The screen faded to black, then lightened as the first line of credits crawled upward. Blair stirred, pulling his mind away from a summer beach long ago to the present. Students were standing, grabbing backpacks and books, talking, hushed voices gradually increasing in volume as the spell they had been under receded. A woman professor, her eyes surrounded by smudged mascara, reminded everyone that the first draft of their papers were due Tuesday. Then there was a mass exodus for the doors, until only two people were left in the amphitheater. 

Blair turned with surprise to look at the man he had been vaguely aware had slid in behind him during the movie. At first, something about the man seemed very familiar, but he was sure they'd never met. Only a few inches taller than Blair himself, late fifties maybe, with a magnificent head of silvery-black hair, and hooded dark eyes still glittering with unshed tears. "She was magnificent, wasn't she?" the man asked, his voice surprisingly deep. He gestured to the now-dark screen. 

"Yes, she was," Blair responded, still aware of that odd sense of recognition. Then it clicked and he looked back at the now-blank screen. "That was you! The young lover, you were the actor." His mind scrabbled for the name. "Colin LaMonte." 

After several stunned minutes, the man's face brightened with a smile. "Do you know how long it has been since anyone recognized me?" He offered his hand. "Are you Blair Sandburg? I am Larry Hughes. Once upon a time I was Colin LaMonte. 

"I understand you are looking for me."

*** ***

Jim stifled a yawn. His eyes kept drifting shut. He went into the Men's room and splashed cold water on his face, then detoured for a cup of coffee. The stuff that came out of the community pot was not nearly as palatable as that in Simon's office, but it was a lot stronger. 

"Ellison! My office!" Simon barked.

The dark captain studied his best detective with concern. "Jesus, Jim, you look terrible," he remarked. "Are you coming down with something?"

"No, sir, I don't think so. I feel fine. Just a little tired. You know." Jim tried to force a smile and was rewarded by a disbelieving snort from his commanding officer. He knew Simon wanted to pursue the subject, so he quickly changed it. "What's up?" 

"Robberies." Simon Banks chewed on an unlit cigar. "Liquor stores, gas stations, mini-marts... anyplace that's open late at night with no near neighbors. Thirty-seven, in the last five months, starting in Northern California, then through Oregon, Seacouver, Seattle and finally here. Three hits this week." He hesitated. "Shot a clerk Monday night; he'll live. The one last night wasn't so lucky." He tossed a picture onto the desk. Jim numbly looked at it. "Good God, Simon, he barely looks sixteen!" 

"Eighteen, actually. Mark Cohen. Straight A student from Tacoma, attending Rainier. His crime was apparently not bagging the money fast enough; for that he took two .38 bullets in heart. Robbery needs help with this one, Jim; I volunteered you and Sandburg." 

Jim just nodded. Simon reached for the cup in his hand, took a sniff of the contents, then shook his head and moved to pour the detective a cup of fragrant hazelnut blend. "Jim, I don't like to interfere, but what's going on with you and Sandburg? Two weeks ago I would have sworn you wouldn't have gotten him out of the loft with dynamite, then all of a sudden he's packed up and gone? What's the deal?" 

"I asked him to move out." Jim held up a hand to halt Simon's outraged comment. "I thought I was doing the right thing, sir. I haven't exactly been easy to get along with lately." (Simon snorted with apparent agreement.) "I was feeling... I don't know, trapped? No that's not it---just like I had no place, no space, to regroup. To have some peace, some downtime. I was jumping all over Sandburg, to the point where I think he was afraid to breathe too loudly around me. I talked with Dr. Ayer, and she suggested, maybe Sandburg and I are together too much." 

Simon snorted again. "Since when do you listen to the department shrink? So, what, you just told Sandburg to hit the streets?" 

"Not really. I just said, maybe when I got back from Dallas we should look around for a place of his own, close by." Jim laughed without humor. "I hadn't been in Dallas two days when I realized that wasn't the answer. But when I got home, Sandburg had already moved." 

"So, did you mention to him that you'd changed your mind?"

Jim shook his head.

"Why the hell not?" Simon bellowed. "Jim, you look like crap--excuse the expression-- and the kid wanders around here like he's lost his best friend-- *you.* Why don't you tell him you were wrong and ask him to move back?" 

"Simon, he wants to be gone. It's so obvious, he must have started moving the day I left. I think he was just looking for an excuse. Oh, I don't blame him--his life was enough of a mess without me dumping all my bad emotions on him. I want him to move back, but I don't think *he* wants to." 

"Have you bothered to ask him *what* he wants?" Simon questioned. 

Jim shook his head. "I can tell. Simon, if I thought Sandburg really wanted to move back in, I'd pack his stuff up myself. But as it is, if I say anything, Sandburg might move back because he thinks he *has* to, not because he *wants* to." Jim lowered his voice, even though Simon's office door was closed. "I am a Sentinel. Sandburg is my Guide. Sometimes, he lets that... me, be more important than his own life. He gave up the opportunity to go to Borneo, an anthropologist's dream, because of me. If living somewhere else is what *he* wants, then that's the way it's going to have to be." 

*** ***

"Why are you so interested in Rita Mallory? You're not a student, are you?" 

Blair accepted the cup of tea Larry Hughes offered him. "I'm a grad student in Anthropology. My interest in Rita Mallory came about because, well, I'm living in her house." 

Hughes raised his eyebrows. "Really? The house out on Coast Highway? You do know she died--" 

"Yes, I know about that," Blair assured him hastily. The very thought made him uncomfortable and he hurried to tell the older man how he had come to be living in the house. 

"Interesting. I had no idea Roger Winfield kept the house. I haven't seen it in years; I assume it's much changed." 

"I kind of doubt it," Blair admitted. "It's almost eerie in a way, most of the house looks like it probably did then. A lot of personal possessions still around. I think Mr. Winfield maybe had the kitchen updated, and the bathroom off the maid's quarters. That's where I live." 

"Roger Winfield. He wanted Rita; he worshipped the image she portrayed. He would have done anything for her. He *did* do everything for her. But in the long run he couldn't hold on to her any more than any other man could. We all wanted her, but none of us could keep her." 

Blair cocked his head to one side. Hughes seemed to be unaware of his change from "they" to "we". "You included?" 

Hughes' face darkened. "I didn't want her," he corrected. "I *loved* her. But Rita fell in love with the character I played. No, that's not even correct: 'Deirdre' fell in love with 'Brett Carstairs'. Once the filming of 'Enchanted Summer' was over, and she wasn't Deirdre, and I wasn't Brett, *we* were over." 

"I'm sorry," Blair started. The other man waved his hand. 

"It doesn't bother me. It was a long time ago, and I was just a kid at the time. To think back now, it's as if *our* romance was part of the film also. Rita went on. She took her Oscar and she put the film behind her and went on to the next role. That was Rita, you know, just one role after another. There was just one role she would never play." He stared into space. 

Blair was starting to feel as if Hughes had forgotten who he was talking to. "What was that?" he prompted. The young anthropologist was fighting against a wild sense of unreality. Plus that strange feeling, the feeling that somehow he'd been here, seen this before. 

"Mary Margaret O'Malley."

Blair frowned. "But she *was* Mary Margaret O'Malley."

"No, she wasn't." Hughes' voice deepened, developing almost an Irish brogue. "Mary Margaret O'Malley was a skinny, red-haired, freckled face lass from the wrong side of the tracks, one generation removed from the potato fields of Ireland. She shared a crowded attic bedroom with two brothers and two sisters. She was too tall to wear her sisters' hand-me-downs but she had to anyway, and the nuns punished her for being so immodest as to show her knees. Mary Margaret would grow up to marry Mike the cop or, if she was very lucky, Frank, who worked in his father's hardware store. She would live, bear children, and die, in the same kind of house in the same neighborhood as her mother before her, with the highlight of her life being Mass on Wednesday and Sunday mornings. That wasn't Rita. It never could have been Rita. She paid for her mother's funeral but she didn't attend, because if she did, she have to go as Mary Margaret, and she couldn't stand to do that, even for one afternoon." 

Silence fell across the little office, the ceiling-high shelves crowded with books and plays and videotapes. In the distance, someone was playing piano, something classical, Mozart, maybe. 

"Who killed her?" Blair asked finally.

Hughes' eyes, which had been staring off into the distance, sharpened suddenly and he focused on Blair. "Roger Winfield, of course. Her husband."

"But you said he loved her."

"He wanted her. He desired her. He didn't love her, how could he? He didn't even know her. Roger would have given her the world on a platter if he could. He gave and she took. But eventually he ran out of things Rita wanted, and she left him. She took up with that gangster." Hughes shrugged. "I can't really blame Roger. Can you imagine, having something that wonderful, it having been yours, and then to see her leave you for... trash? Scum. That's what he was, you know, that mobster she took up with. The one justice about the whole thing is that he died, too." 

"But so did two children," Blair pointed out gently. "And one of them was Roger Winfield's own son. Are you saying he killed his own child?"

Hughes stared off into space. "Are you familiar with the Bible, Mr. Sandburg? An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life."

Blair shuddered. Before he could say anything else, there was a knock at the door and the secretary stuck her head in. "Dr. Larry, I'm so sorry to bother you, but Angie Maxwell just called in. She has chicken pox and can't teach her one thirty class--" 

"I have to leave, anyway," Blair said hastily, catching sight of his watch. Grabbing the strap of his backpack, he stood up. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Hughes." 

"Please, call me Dr. Larry," the man said, leaning forward to shake Blair's hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Blair. Would it be possible for me to come out to the house sometime? I would like to see it again, look at some of Rita's things." 

"Yeah, well-- I'm sure that would be okay." Blair scribbled down his cell phone number and his extension in his office. "Just give me a call."

*** ***

Jim Ellison dragged his body behind the wheel of his truck. For almost a minute, he just sat there, eyes closed, visualizing a dial in his mind, a dial labeled "Pain". A phantom hand tried to grasp the dial, turn it down, but the dial was stuck at ten and stubbornly refused to move. After three or four attempts, Jim gave up and opened his eyes again, staring unseeingly into the darkened parking garage. 

A long, fruitless day. Jim still had no idea where Melissa Stephens might be and a long afternoon spent checking out possible targets for the robbers had turned up exactly nothing. The only good thing that had happened is that Blair had somehow managed to reduce Jim's ever-present headache, but now that he was away from his Guide the pain was back and worse than ever. Jim sighed and tried to find the energy to start the truck. 

His senses were so out of kilter that the first warning he had someone was approaching was when he heard a tap on the window. "Jim?" Blair stood next to the truck, arms wrapped around himself against the chill of the parking garage, worry plain on his expressive features. "Are you okay?" 

"Hey, Chief. I thought you'd left already," Jim said as he rolled down the window. 

"What's wrong?" the younger man persisted. "Your headache again?" 

Jim hesitated, then nodded. Blair shot him an exasperated look and rounded the truck, waiting until Jim reached across and unlocked the passenger door for him. As he climbed in, the Sentinel's hearing, suddenly back on-line, picked up the faint sounds of Blair's teeth chattering. Muttering, "Sandburg, you should live in Arizona," Jim leaned forward and turned up the heat. 

"And you should try sleeping some time," Blair returned evenly. He gently pushed Jim so that his back was to him, reaching his hands to the Sentinel's shoulders. 

Jim grunted as strong fingers dug into muscles rock-hard with tension. He heard his Guide's voice say, "Jeez, Jim, relax." 

"I can't," Jim croaked.

"Yes, you can." Blair's voice lowered, deepened, became wonderfully soothing. "Turn down the dial." 

"I tried. It won't work." Jim surrendered to the fingers that were somehow bringing relief to his aching body. 

"You know the drill. Lean back, close your eyes. Visualize the pain dial. See your fingers grasping it, turning it. Turning it down. Down, down, down." Blair's voice was hypnotic. Jim felt the tightness in his neck, back and shoulders receding, the pounding agony in his head gradually eased. He didn't move for several minutes as Blair's fingers and voice continued to soothe and heal. Jim saw the dial in his head. A phantom hand reached out and turned it down, past nine, eight, seven. It stayed stubbornly there. Blair's voice persisted, wrapping around his Sentinel like a warm blanket, the words not as important as the voice that was saying them. After several long seconds, the dial turned again, to six, then five, down all the way. Jim opened his eyes. 

"It's gone." He smiled in relief, then twisted back around to look at his partner. "How can you do that, Sandburg? So easily? I've been trying to turn down that damn dial for two days and I couldn't get it to budge." 

"Is that why you haven't been sleeping? Your headache?" Blair asked, settling back against the door and massaging his hands. 

"What makes you think I'm not sleeping?" Jim stalled.

Blair threw him an "Oh, right!" look. He held up his right hand, ticking the fingers off like beads on an abacus. "Let's see. You have black circles under your eyes. You ran through those interviews today like Simon had announced a prize for the first detective done. You look like walking death and you're acting like it, too. You didn't even know I was by the truck until I knocked on the window." He stopped and looked at Jim, his eyebrows raised. 

"Okay," Jim confessed. "I haven't slept the last few nights. But that's normal." 

"Normal?" Blair repeated, disbelief in his tone. "In all the time I've known you, the only times you've had two consecutive nights with no sleep have been when you're not feeling well or when your senses are out of control. Which one is it?" 

"Both, I guess," Jim sighed, surrendering. "I just can't fall asleep. I'm sure it has something to do with being back home, all the noises seem so loud and everything seems so close and so... sharp." 

Blair's forehead rippled with tiny frown lines as he considered Jim's words. "Have you tried your white noise earplugs?" 

"No. I'll try them tonight," Jim assured Blair hastily. He cast around for a change of subject, then he frowned. "Why *haven't* you gone yet, Chief? You left fifteen minutes before I did." 

"Well, actually, my car is acting funny," Blair said. "It started, but it keeps acting like it wants to die. I was going to see if you could maybe follow me home. But forget it, man; you're too tired. I'll be fine." 

"Yeah, right," Jim snorted in turn. He stretched and reveled in the relief of pain. "You got anything to eat out there or should we stop for Chinese on the way?" 

"Are you sure you don't mind?" Blair asked tentatively.

"I'd mind a lot more if I did manage to get to sleep only to have to come pick you up somewhere. Where are you parked?" 

*** ***

"Damn," Blair groaned as he fumbled with his keys at the back door. "The power must be out again. I know I left the kitchen light on." 

"It can't be," Jim objected, "The microwave clock is on. Plus I can hear the hum in the power lines." He entered behind Blair. "Where is--oh I see it. Stay here." 

Blair obediently stood by the door while Jim made his way easily across the room to the light switch. He blinked a little in the sudden glare of light. "Man, I could have sworn I left it on!" 

"You probably turned it off automatically when you left. You do that, you know," Jim pointed out. He looked around, his nose wrinkling. "What is that smell?" 

Blair dropped his backpack on a vacant kitchen chair. "What smell?"

"Don't you smell that?"

"No, Jim, I don't." Blair sighed, wondering how many times they'd had *that* particular exchange. Sometimes Jim just seemed to assume his Guide saw, smelled, heard and tasted everything he did. Blair moved to the refrigerator, opening it to survey the contents. "Pasta okay? Or would you rather have an omelet?" Jim was still rotating in the center of the room and as Blair stared at him, he started sneezing violently.

"Are you okay?"

Jim finally drew a deep breath, although his eyes were red and watery. "Must be the dust." 

"It didn't bother you the other day. Besides, there's a professional cleaning service that comes out every other week; it's not that dusty."

"Well, then, it's whatever that smell is." Jim sneezed again.

Blair let the refrigerator door close. "What does it smell like?" he asked, sitting down at the table and motioning for Jim to do likewise.

"I don't--" Jim started, then he cocked his head. After a second, he turned to look out the kitchen door. "Someone's coming." 

Blair stood up as headlights rounded the last curve and illuminated the driveway. "I wonder who that is?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jim reach around to touch his gun, almost as a reassurance in case the visitor wasn't friendly. Blair strained his eyes, but he didn't recognize the figure until it moved into the pool of light from the kitchen windows. "Oh, I know him. It's Dr. Larry. He's the guy I was telling you about earlier, the one that I talked with about Rita Mallory." 

"Kind of late for an impromptu visit, isn't it?" Jim wanted to know, letting his hand fall away from his gun. He wiped at his still-watering eyes impatiently. 

Blair opened the door. "Dr. Larry! Come on in."

"Mr. Sandburg, I am so sorry for this unannounced visit," the professor apologized as he entered. He looked questioningly at Jim and Blair hastened to introduce them. Jim nodded, sneezing again. "Allergies?" Larry Hughes questioned sympathetically. 

"Yeah, I guess." Blair pulled a box of Kleenex (the unscented kind) from his room and set it in front of Jim. "Can I get you a cup of tea?"

"No, no, I don't mean to intrude. I just had this wonderful thought, and I wanted to discuss it with you in person." Larry walked around the kitchen, his expression far away. "It looks almost the same as I remembered," he murmured. He swung to look at Blair. "Mr. Sandburg, I would like to live in this house." 

Startled, Blair didn't say anything for a minute, then, "Dr. Larry, that isn't my call--" 

"Oh, I know, we'd have to clear it with Roger's nephew or whatever he is, but I can't see why he would object. My apartment building is going condominium and I don't wish to buy into it; you said that many of Rita's personal possessions, her books and scrapbooks and letters are here; I've been thinking for some time about writing another biography of her; this would be perfect!" 

"Well, maybe for you," Blair said, his mind in a whirl. One thought pushed its way to the forefront of all others and he stole a look at Jim. His next comment was addressed more to him than to Larry. "If I leave here I won't have anyplace to live." He held his breath as he studied the Sentinel's face. 

Jim just stared at him blankly, never changing expression.

Seconds ticked by with nothing said. 

'Well, that's pretty clear,' Blair thought, feeling almost sick with disappointment. 'He's glad I've moved out. I guess he really meant all that about being a loner and needing space.' His voice hardened as he turned his back on Jim. "I'm sorry, Dr. Larry, but I'm staying right where I am." 

*** ***

"Well, that settles it, Simon, you were wrong," Jim announced as if the captain was there to hear. He wasn't of course. No one was as Jim drove back to Cascade after what had been a remarkably uncomfortable dinner with Blair. "Sandburg had the perfect opportunity to move back to the loft tonight, and he nixed it. He's happy where he is." 

Jim fell silent, the echo of his words mocking him in the quiet cab of the pickup. He thought back over the moment he'd heard Larry Hughes make his offer to take over the house from Blair. His heart had leapt for a second, sure that his Guide was on his way home. Then he'd been distracted for a minute, by something, some noise or smell that shouldn't have been there but was. He'd been dangerously close to zoning when he'd heard Blair's ringing statement, "I'm staying right where I am."

'Face it, Ellison, this is for the best. The kid wants to be on his own, or maybe Dr. Ayer was right and he just needs to be away from you.'

"But I need him," Jim whispered.

'He doesn't need you. Except for his dissertation.'

"No!" Jim exclaimed. 'I know that's not true. He said it himself, many times. It's more than that. It is.' 

'Okay, so it is. But he doesn't have to give up his whole life for you, does he?' 

Jim let out a great sigh as he parked his truck in its spot at 852 Prospect, resolutely turning his eyes away from the spot where Blair had usually parked the Volvo. Moving slowly, painfully, aware of the horrible tightness in the temples that signaled the beginning of another headache, he got out of the truck and locked the doors, then started for the building.

*** ***

Blair poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. Wearily he regarded the steam rising from his mug. 

It was Jim's favorite brand of coffee. He had just automatically picked it up when shopping. 

He glanced at his watch. After ten. Pale sunshine lay in patterns on the tile floor. A bird sang outside the window. Blair folded his hands around the mug, welcoming the warmth. It was cold in here. Or maybe it was just him. 

After Jim had left after dinner the night before, Blair had just left the dirty dishes piled in the sink and gone to the bathroom for a long, blistering hot shower, then crawled into his bed with a stack of papers to grade. An hour later, realizing he'd only scored half of one quiz, he'd switched off the light. A message on the answering machine had informed him that Hargrove Hall was still off-limits so classes would be cancelled Thursday. Maybe even Friday. 

Once that would have cheered Blair, as much as he enjoyed his students. Time to make inroads on the piles of papers that seemed to multiply when he wasn't looking, time to read and research and do Jim's paperwork at the station; most of all, time to spend with Jim. His friend, Jim. 

His early (for him) night hadn't accomplished much. Blair had tossed and turned most of the night. He had been so sure that Jim was regretting his leaving; so sure that Jim was missing him as badly as Blair missed Jim. But then Blair had made the comment about having nowhere else to go, and Jim had just stared at him. 

No. Jim had stared *through* him. 

Almost as if he weren't seeing Blair at all.

Blair sat up in the chair, his heart quickening. Was it possible Jim had been distracted, maybe even starting to zone? 

'But he wasn't using his senses...

'Maybe he was, though. He was sneezing and then he just stopped. That look on his face... it looked like a zone-out...' 

Suddenly energized, Blair jumped to his feet, forgetting the coffee. He'd shower and dress and go to the station. Larry Hughes wanted the house. Blair would talk to Jim. Not hinting around like the night before, this time he would swallow his pride and risk it all and ask Jim if he could move back to the loft. 

A horrible screeching filled the room.

Blair froze, startled for a second, until he recognized the sound as the ancient hot water heater protestingly sending water through the pipes.

Hot water?

Blair hadn't used any hot water this morning. And Blair was the only one in the house. 

Or was he? Cold chills shuddered down his spine.

Things flashed through his mind: the missing yogurt, the bumps during the night, the opened cupboard in the study. Jim saying he'd smelled something. The fact that Blair *knew* he'd left the kitchen light on the day before. 

He hesitated, then picked up the heavy flashlight and stealthily started for the staircase. 

Then he jumped at the shrill ringing that cut through the air.

After a startled second, Blair identified the sound as his cell phone. He looked up at the stairs, then hurried back through the kitchen, into his bedroom and grabbed the instrument where it was lying on the bedside table. 

"Sandburg!" Simon Banks' voice and he sounded upset: mad or worried, it was hard to tell sometimes with Simon. "Do you know where Jim is?"

"He's not at the station?" Blair questioned.

"Sandburg, would I be calling *you* if Jim was here at the station? He had an eight o'clock meeting with the guys from Robbery. He didn't show. I've called the loft and his cell and paged him. Nothing! I was hoping he might be with you or have said something to you." 

"Jim missed a meeting?" Jim *never* missed meetings. The man was anal about setting the alarm. Even if he *had* overslept somehow, there was no way he could sleep though his pager, *and* the cell phone, *and* the regular phone. 

Cold panic balled in Blair's stomach. Ice water coursed through his veins. 

He said something to Simon, he wasn't sure what, and disconnected the phone while the captain was still making noises. Blair was panting, he was vaguely aware of cold sweat pouring down his face and the back of his neck. 

'Something is wrong.' The Guide knew this.

Blair exploded into motion. He shoved his bare feet into his running shoes, grabbed a jacket to cover his T-shirt, snatched his keys off the table. He barely remembered to lock the door before he ran for his car. 'Please, please, please start--- thank you!' he mentally cheered as the engine coughed into life. Not giving the Volvo time to warm up, he threw it into gear and aimed it down the hill. 

*** ***

**[Concluded in Part Three...](suekelley3c.htm) **

* * *


	3. A Hollow Within (Part Three),

A Hollow Within  
Part Three  


Blair covered the miles between the house and Jim's loft much faster than was technically possible for someone obeying the speed laws and driving in a responsible manner. He was doing neither. Everything in him urged him to get to his Sentinel. 

Jim's truck was parked in the usual spot. Blair skidded to a stop next to it and leapt out, laying one hand on the truck's hood in passing. Cold. The truck hadn't been driven this morning. 

He jumped onto the elevator, pushed the button for the third floor, waited during the endless seconds it took the conveyance to crawl upwards. He clutched the loft key tightly in his hand and sent grateful thoughts to whatever deity had assisted him in "forgetting" to return it to Jim.

"Jim!" he yelled as he unlocked the door and barged into the silent loft. "Jim! Are you here?" 

Silence. He looked around, taking in Jim's coat hanging on the hook, his keys in the basket. The cell phone, lying on the coffee table. 

Blair bolted for the stairs, took them two at a time. Jim's bed was disheveled, the covers twisted and humped, the pillows pounded into dented shapes. But no Sentinel. Blair tore back down the stairs, not yelling anymore because he knew if Jim *could* answer, he would have. Besides, Blair didn't have enough oxygen left to yell. 

No Jim in the bathroom--on the balcony--in the kitchen.

There was only one place left.

Blair's eyes rested on the closed French doors to his old room. He knew, he *knew,* that's where he would find Jim. 

And he did.

"Oh, shit," Blair breathed in mingled relief and terror. Terror because he recognized the blank stare, the widely dilated eyes. 

Zone-out.

"Jim?" Blair all but whispered, moving forward. Jim was sitting on the floor with his back to the bed; Blair knelt in front of him and carefully grasped his shoulder. "Jim, listen to me. It's okay. You need to come back now." 

He waited. Jim's eyes didn't blink, didn't move. His skin under Blair's grasping fingers was cold, so cold to the touch. His chest just barely rose and fell with his shallow breaths. 

"Oh, God. Jim, please. Listen to me, big guy. Follow my voice. Jim, you need to come back now. Jim? Jim, please! Please come back now." As terrified as he was, Blair struggled to keep his voice level, even, soothing and reassuring. "Whatever it is, buddy, you need to pull away from it. Listen to me, Jim, listen to my voice. Follow my voice, Jim. Follow my voice back." 

He lost track of the time as he knelt before his friend, talking, constantly talking to bring him back. He wasn't aware of half of what he said; he knew the words were less important than his voice. His voice was the lifeline that could bring Jim back from wherever his senses had sent him. 

Was Jim's breathing stronger? He thought so. Blair looked closely and saw a flicker of movement around Jim's mouth. His eyelids twitched, then the blank, dead stare was replaced by a look of confusion, then gradually, awareness. "Sandburg," the older man rasped, "What's going on?" He looked around. "When did you get here?" 

Blair let out his pent-up breath in a great sigh of relief. Suddenly aware that his knees ached and his feet were asleep from kneeling so long, he sat back and stretched out his legs. "Man, you scared me!" He noticed that Jim was shivering and rubbing his hands up and down his arms and he staggered to his feet. In the kitchen, Blair emptied out the coffeemaker and put in fresh water and coffee, then left it to brew while he grabbed the afghan off the back of the couch and carried it into his old room, draping it around Jim. 

"Thanks," the detective wheezed. "What the hell happened to me? What time is it?" 

Blair looked at his watch, then silently turned his wrist so Jim could see it. The older man's eyes widened in something like shock. "In the *afternoon?*" 

"Yeah. How long have you been down here?"

Jim met his gaze, then dropped his eyes. "I couldn't sleep again," he finally sighed. "I came down for some of that yellow tea you're always raving about, then I came in here. That was about five this morning."

"Oh, God," Blair groaned. "You've been zoned for *eight hours!*" Before he could say anything else, the shrill ring of a telephone blasted through the loft. Jim instinctively moved, then groaned and rubbed his shin. Blair patted his shoulder. "I'll get it. You just stay put." 

"Sandburg, is that you?" Simon's voice barreled from the receiver. "What the hell did you mean by hanging up on me? Where's Jim? Is he all right?" 

"He's here," Blair answered. "He's... well, he seems okay, now. I'm sorry I forgot to call you back." 

"Why haven't you been answering your cell? And what do you mean, Jim *seems* okay now? Is he or isn't he? And if he is, why isn't he here, damn it?" 

"Look, Simon, I haven't got a handle on it all myself yet. Jim apparently had a pretty bad zone out early this morning. I'll have him call you in just a little bit, okay? But the situation is under control." 

"The situation hasn't been under control since you moved out, Sandburg!"

"Simon, please. I'll get back to you, or Jim will. I promise."

After a long silence, Blair heard a sigh from the other end of the phone. "Okay, kid. But have Ellison call me ASAP, you understand? I'll tell the robbery guys he woke up with the flu, or... hell, I'll think of something."

After saying good-bye, Blair detoured to the bathroom. As he walked into the cubicle, he saw a small green bottle sitting on the side of the sink. Curious, he picked it up. One look at the label on the front of the bottle sent him racing back to Jim's side. "Jim, this is Nytol! Did you take this last night?" 

Jim looked uncomfortable. He shrugged. "Just two, like the directions said. I had to get some sleep." 

"Jim! Don't you remember the cold medicine and how it affected you? No wonder you zoned for eight hours!" Jim muttered something and Blair frowned. "What did you say?" 

"I didn't zone because of the Nytol. I zoned because--I was listening... I was trying to hear..." Jim looked at the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at Blair. 

"Jim?" Blair knelt in front of the older man again, one hand on his knee, waiting silently until Jim finally gave up and met his gaze. "You were listening for what?" 

Jim took a deep breath. "For you. I was listening for your heartbeat."

Blair just stared at him.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I've gotten used to listening to you at night, it's kind of--I don't know if it's a Sentinel thing or not--but I listen to your heartbeat, and I go to sleep listening to your heartbeat. That's why I haven't been able to sleep. I didn't realized that's what was wrong, but last night, I was trying to block out the sounds and go to sleep, and I couldn't, because I was trying to hear... I was listening for one particular sound, and it wasn't there." Jim took a deep breath. "*You* weren't here, Chief." 

Blair couldn't say anything, he couldn't think. His mind was in a whirl as he stared at Jim, unaware of how huge his eyes were in his pale face.

"Jeez, this is embarrassing," Jim mumbled. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and said, all in a rush, "Sandburg, I was wrong, I know you're happy living where you are but Chief, I really need you here do you think you could please move back just for awhile until I get a better handle on this senses thing and--" 

Blair finally reacted. "Jim!" he almost yelled. "Stop. Please. You're babbling and you sound like me." 

Jim grinned. "Guess you've rubbed off on me." Then he sobered. "Seriously, Chief, I hate to ask you to do this, but... do you think you could see your way clear to move back?" 

"Jim, I never wanted to leave in the first place!"

"I know. It was my idea. But it was wrong, Chief, I realized that in Dallas. I was going to tell you when I got back, but, you'd already moved out." 

"You mean, you really didn't want your 'space'?"

"Sandburg, a lot of things have happened in the last couple of months. I was a loner for a long time, and there are times when I feel like I can't away, I can't get any peace. But, it's not you! You're not the problem. I just take it out on you. And that was why I thought maybe it would be best if we lived apart, for your sake. I was afraid if I kept jumping all over you, you'd decide to call the whole thing off."

A long silence. 

"You mean, the Sentinel/Guide thing?"

Jim nodded. "That." In a very quiet voice, he added, "And the friendship."

Suddenly, Blair saw everything and the enormity of it almost knocked his breath away. "You weren't just tired of having me in your face all the time?" 

"God, no! I mean, I get irritated with the tests and strange things in the refrigerator and you up at all hours, but... I'm used to it now."

Blair studied him, seeing finally what the Sentinel couldn't say. He smiled, but before he could say anything, Jim raised one hand to stop him. "Sandburg, I'm not good at this mushy stuff, but, I need to say this. A long time ago, you said, this was about friendship. Well, that goes both ways. And I don't say it--I don't show it nearly enough--but, you are my friend. My best friend. And beyond that, you're my Guide. I need you, Chief. And I was afraid if things kept going the way they were, I'd lose you." 

Blair was just shaking his head, belatedly realizing that he was grinning like an idiot. "That must have been hard to say." 

Jim grinned in return. "You have no idea." His eyes were worried. "So, what do you think? Will you move back?" He swallowed hard. "Please?" he added in a half-whisper. 

"Jim, I don't get it," Blair protested. "If you wanted me to move back to the loft, why didn't you say anything last night?" 

"Last night?" Jim repeated blankly.

"Yeah, when Dr. Larry wanted to take over the house and I said I didn't have anywhere else to go." 

Jim's brows furrowed in thought. "I never heard you say that," he confessed. "I got distracted by something--" 

"What?"

"I can't figure it out. I was still sneezing from that smell--"

"--And we still don't know what that was," Blair noted.

"And I -- heard something."

"What?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't know, I couldn't get a fix on it."

"Yes, you can," Blair insisted, instinctively changing into his soothing "Guide" voice. "Just think... we're in the kitchen. Block out my heartbeat, Dr. Larry's heartbeat, the hum of the refrigerator, the water trickling in the sink. Block out-- what?" he interjected as Jim's eyelids popped open. 

"Heartbeats!" Jim exclaimed. "That was what I heard, not *three* heartbeats, but *four!* Someone else was in the house last night!" 

*** ***

Jim's jaw was clenched so hard the bone showed whitely through the skin. "I can't believe you didn't tell me all this before," he growled. 

Blair sighed. "Jim, I didn't put it all together before. The missing food, and the noises, and the lights being off when I thought I'd left them on... nothing really made that much of an impression until this morning when I heard the pipes. Then Simon called and I forgot all about it." 

"How could you *forget* an intruder in your house?"

Blair stared at him, then swatted his arm, hard. "Because I knew something was wrong with *you*, you moron!" 

"Oh." Jim had the grace to look abashed. Then his face stiffened. "Well, that settles it, you're not staying out there one more night. It's not safe. Guess you'll just have to come back home." 

In spite of his smug words, there was a desperate entreaty in his voice and in his eyes that Blair recognized and responded to immediately. 

"I'm coming home," he said reassuringly.

The lines of stress crossing Jim's forehead eased infinitesimally. "Now? Or in six months?" he asked quietly. 

"Oh, I was thinking about this weekend, actually. If Dr. Larry wants to stay in the house I'm sure the owner won't have a problem." He hesitated. "But you have to promise me, if you need space and you don't feel like I'm giving it to you, you *tell* me before it gets to the explosion point."

There was a long pause, then finally, Jim's face lightened in a smile. "Sure thing, Chief. We'll make it a House Rule!" 

Blair rolled his eyes. "Great," he muttered, his tone belying the huge smile on his face. "What does that make, Rule Number 92?" 

*** ***

Blair's cellular phone rang as he and Jim were entering Major Crimes. Seeing that Simon had spotted Jim and was on his way over with a pretty ticked-off expression on his dark face, Blair prudently left them to it and moved over to Jim's desk. He pulled the phone from his backpack. "Hello." 

"Blair Sandburg? This is Ashley Cunningham. I had a message that you called yesterday." 

Blair frowned, trying to remember. Oh, right. Those books about Rita Mallory. Funny thing, that didn't seem as important now, but still, he'd like to see them. Quickly explaining who he was, Blair asked the girl on the other end of the phone if she was done with the books, and, if she was, could she go ahead and turn them in so he could borrow them?

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"Umm, I don't think so. I-- I could call you when I'm done with them. But it might be awhile." 

Something about her voice disturbed Blair. He persisted, "Well, if I can just take a look at them, it shouldn't take me very long--" 

"I don't have them!" The words burst from the girl in a rush. "Oh, please, don't tell anybody, I know it's against the rules but she said she'd take care of them and I really needed the money! But she knows when they're due back and she promised me she'd have them back to me before then." 

"What are you talking about?" Blair asked, honestly befuddled.

He heard the girl take a deep breath. "I was in the library and this woman came up to me. I recognized her, who wouldn't? She said she needed some books about Rita Mallory. She offered me a hundred dollars to check them out with my student I.D. for her. Then she promised me that she'd bring them back to me before the due date." 

"You mean, she didn't have University ID herself so she couldn't check the books out on her own? What do you mean, you recognized her?" 

"She spoke at the Women In Communications meeting last week. I told her she could probably get permission to check the books out herself, but she didn't want to go to the hassle. And I really needed the money."

Blair was starting to get rather irritated with Ashley Cunningham. Hope she never signs up for one of my classes! Patiently he asked, "Who was this woman, Ashley?" 

"Umm, she's married to that doctor, the one that's always on the news. I can't remember her name... wait a minute, let me ask." There was a murmur of voices on the other end as Ashley apparently consulted a sorority sister who had a better memory for names than she did. Then the girl's voice returned, triumphant. "Melissa Stephens!" 

Melissa Stephens? Jim's Missing Person!

Blair asked a few more questions, determined that Ashley knew nothing more than she'd already told him, then rang off. He started for Jim, eager to tell him that his Missing Person had been sighted at least a full day after the last time Jim knew about, but Jim and Simon were still arguing. Blair listened long enough to figure out that there were some bigwigs in the Commissioner's office wanting to speak with Jim about some robberies, and Craig Stephens was in Simon's office, likewise desirous of conversation with one Detective Ellison. Blair glanced that way, to see a worried-looking man pacing in front of Simon's desk, speaking into a cell phone and gesturing wildly with his hands. Blair sat down at Jim's desk, deciding to wait until Simon was finished with his friend. His backpack brushed the files on the desk and one fell to the floor, a piece of paper fluttering from it to land under the desk. Muttering to himself, Blair got down on hands and knees to retrieve it. 

"Jim!"

"What, Sandburg?" Jim broke off the argument and he and Simon both looked down to where the grad student was sitting on his heels, studying a flimsy piece of paper. 

"Whose birth certificate is this?" Blair demanded, excitement in his voice. 

Jim reached out and took it from him. "Oh. I forgot about this. It's Melissa Stephens'; the original one before she was adopted." Mistaking Blair's stunned look, he went on, "I'd hoped it might give us some idea where she might have gone next, but so far it hasn't. The father's name probably isn't even the right one; Brett Carstairs was a character in some movie about that time." 

Blair bounced to his feet. "Yeah! 'Enchanted Summer'!"

"How'd you know that?"

Blair was so excited he had a hard time getting the words out. "Jim, I bet I know where Melissa Stephens is! She's at the house! She's my ghost!" 

Jim and Simon stared at him wordlessly.

"Guys, don't you see? Brett Carstairs was in love with the character Rita Mallory played in 'Enchanted Summer'. She won an Oscar for her part." Blair's eyes grew huge. "Mono," he muttered, half to himself. He looked down at the birth certificate again, seeing the date of birth. "It wasn't mono! She was pregnant!" 

Jim strode forward and gripped Blair by the shoulder. "Slow down, Chief, you're babbling again. Now, why would Melissa Stephens be haunting your house?" 

Blair fluttered the birth certificate in Jim's face, jabbing at the mother's name. "Mary M. O'Malley. Mary *Margaret* O'Malley! Rita Mallory's real name. Don't you get it? Rita Mallory is Melissa Stephens birth mother!" 

*** ***

"Jim, we should have told Dr. Stephens we know where his wife is. I mean, the man looks miserable." 

"He *is* miserable, Chief, which is why I don't want to raise his hopes by telling him your hunch until we know for sure." 

"But I am sure! What other explanation could there be?"

Jim took his eyes off the twisting Coast Highway long enough to shoot his partner an ironic look. "Come on, Sandburg, there're at least a dozen other explanations that could fit the facts as well, or better, than that scenario you cobbled together." 

"If you don't believe my scenario, why are you exceeding the speed limit?"

Jim glanced at the speedometer. Blair was right; he was driving well over the speed limit and at least ten miles faster than safety conditions allowed. He eased up on the gas pedal as he said, "I do believe you, Sandburg, but that's because I know you, and I know how often your instincts are right." He glanced sideways at Blair. "At least, as long as we aren't dealing with some woman you think you're in love with. As long as you don't decide Melissa Stephens is your one and only you stand a good shot at being right." 

"Very funny," Blair groused. He laughed suddenly.

"What's so funny?" Jim asked.

"Don't get a big head, but I was just thinking how right this feels. You know, you and me. Sentinel and Guide." 

"Partners," Jim said lightly.

Blair turned his head suddenly to look out the window. Jim saw him swallow hard. "Right," he said softly. "Partners." 

*** ***

Blair used his key to let them in the kitchen door. Jim stepped in before his friend, sniffed the air experimentally. The smell that had so irritated him the night before was gone, but there was something else, or was there? He filled his nose, letting the scents drift into his consciousness, one by one: herbal soap and shampoo, a unique combination of scents his mind labeled "Blair". The lingering scent of coffee, a fainter, more elusive one that he tentatively identified as one of those herbal teas his friend favored. A burned smell, stronger from the area around the toaster. And -- 

"Anything?" Blair asked quietly from behind him.

Jim sniffed again, to be sure, then turned and gave his partner a triumphant glance. "Perfume," he announced. "Very expensive perfume." 

"Cool!" Blair exclaimed. He caught Jim's arm as the Sentinel started for the door leading to the rest of the house. "Jim, wait. We can't just wander through the house yelling her name. We'll scare her off. Concentrate on your hearing. See if you can hear her--her heartbeat, her breathing--anything." 

Obedient to his Guide's voice, Jim closed his eyes and opened his ears. He cringed as a horrible loud humming assaulted the nerves. Blair's voice said, "Filter it out," and he did so, dampening the humming of the refrigerator, the ticking of a clock, the fainter ticking of his watch and Sandburg's. Eliminated his heartbeat. Blair's heartbeat. The wind outside, the birds singing a last carol to the fading daylight. Blocked out sounds, one by one, aware of his Guide's hand on his back, his anchor to the real world. 

One sound left. Above them. He started walking, knowing Blair was with him even though his senses were concentrated on that sound. A heartbeat, but something was odd about it. One part of his mind worried at it. A peculiar echo almost to it... 

On the second floor he headed directly to the locked attic door, then stopped as the sound receded slightly. He turned his head, trying to localize the sound. Down the hallway, to the double doors leading to the master suite. He drew his gun, then nodded to Blair to fling both doors wide open. 

*** ***

Blair's eyes widened as he took in the room. It was lit by shaded lamps on either side of the bed and one on the dressing table. The furniture that had been covered by dustsheets was visible now. A woman in front of the dressing table whirled as she heard them, both hands coming to her mouth to choke off a scream. Green eyes widened with alarm. 

Blair felt the room take a sickening turn around him. 'The painting!' he thought disjointedly. He was looking at the painting from the study downstairs come to life. 

The same eyes. The same dark velvet dress, the sleeves dropping off to show creamy shoulders, a hint of bosom. Above the glittering necklace, the high cheekbones, the hint of freckles across the nose, the peaches and cream complexion, the dark red hair, shoulder length and softly waving.

There was a minute of shattering silence.

Then Jim said something. The words made no sense to Blair at first, he had to replay them in his head. A name. Jim was calling the woman some name, but not Rita Mallory. No. 

"Melissa Stephens?" Jim said, not really asking. He stepped toward her. 

All the blood drained from the woman's face, leaving it chalk-white. She stepped back, kept moving back until her back touched the wall, then she crumpled to her knees, the back velvet skirt tangled beneath her. "Please, don't," she breathed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Tears poured down her cheeks. 

The sound of her voice jarred Blair from the peculiar sort of paralysis that had gripped him since the doors had opened. He looked at Jim, who appeared astounded at the woman's terrified reaction, and realized the Sentinel was still holding his gun, pointing it at the woman. Jim must have realized that at the same moment; he holstered it quickly and stepped towards her. "Mrs. Stephens, we're not going to hurt you," he said soothingly. "I'm a policeman. We've been looking for you for several days. Your husband is worried about you." 

The woman didn't act as if she heard him, she wrapped her arms around herself and rocked a little. Her sobs increased, shaking her slight body. "I'm sorry, I know I broke in, and--" her terrified eyes sought Blair's, "I stole some of your food. I left money... I put two twenties in your wallet the other night... I didn't mean to hurt anything...I was just trying--" 

Blair pushed past Jim and knelt beside the woman. "Melissa," he said in the voice that brought Jim back from zone outs, "It's all right. You haven't done anything wrong. We're just worried about you. Craig is worried about you." 

"Craig?" Melissa Stephens' eyes widened even more. She didn't flinch away as Blair put one gentle hand on her wrist. He was no medic, but her pulse seemed awfully fast. And now that he was closer to her he could see dark circles around her eyes, noted the way she was trembling.

"Craig?" she repeated, her voice stronger. She looked around, almost as if she wasn't sure where she was. "Is Craig here?" 

Jim had held back. Now he reached slowly into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. "He can be," he said very quietly. "I can call him. He can be here in thirty minutes. If you want him, Mrs. Stephens. Do you want me to call him?" 

A tiny nod. Jim smiled at her as he punched numbers into the phone, then the smile vanished and he shook the phone. "It's dead," he groused. "Where's yours, Chief?" 

"I left it in the truck. I'll go downstairs and call--"

"No, I'll do it. You stay here." Jim looked at Melissa Stephens; Blair could almost see the medic in him evaluating her condition. He went on, his voice brisk and cheerful, "Do you have any real food down there, Sandburg? I just realized I haven't eaten all day and I'm starving."

Blair felt the little jump Melissa gave at the word "food" and he was sure Jim was aware of it also. "Eggs, big guy. Think you could manage to scramble them? You do know how to open them, right?" he returned lightly. 

"Hey, Chief, who do you think cooked for me before you moved in?" 

"McDonald's?"

"Ha ha." Jim retreated for the door. "I'll be right back."

Melissa Stephens seemed to calm almost immediately once Jim had vanished from view. Blair helped her up and over to the bed, where she curled up on the ivory quilted satin comforter. Neither one said anything until finally Blair broke the silence to introduce himself. "I'm Blair Sandburg."

There was a long pause, then she answered, "Missy Stephens. Although you already know that." She looked down at the hands, white against the black velvet of her skirt. There was a narrow gold band on the third finger of her left hand, along with easily the largest diamond solitaire Blair had ever seen. "You must think I'm insane!" 

Blair reserved comment on that. He knew, from Jim's comments over the last two days and from reading the case file, that Melissa Stephens had undergone several traumas over the last six months, starting with the death of her daughter and then her parents; learning she was adopted; learning of her husband's affair. Plus, if the only food she'd eaten had been what she'd managed to pilfer from Blair's kitchen, she had to be pretty close to starved. He asked a question of his own. "Where did you get the dress?" 

Melissa waved her hand toward the dressing room. Obediently, Blair rose from the bed and walked into the small nook. He'd glanced in here before but not realized what he had taken for a full-length mirror was actually a door. It was ajar now and he opened it all the way, revealing another room, wider than the dressing room. Clothes hung from hangers covered with padded satin, many of them in heavy plastic garment bags. Shoes were treed below while a wide shelf above held hats and purses all of the styles of the late sixties. Blair backed out of the room, eyeing the mirrored door thoughtfully. He shut it. It fit so tightly one would never suspect it was actually a room. Blair realized it was probably close to being air-tight, which would explain the excellent condition of the clothes. 

He turned to say something to Melissa.

The lights went out.

Melissa gasped and let out a frightened little cry. Blair was startled and alarmed, but then he heard the rising wind outside and belatedly remembered the offshore storm the weatherman had predicted. "It's okay," he reassured Melissa, trying to feel his way across the room to the door. "It's just the power again--" 

A shot rang out.

'Downstairs. Oh, my God. Jim!'

*** ***

Jim used the phone in the kitchen to call Simon and ask him to bring Craig Stephens to the house. The captain sounded shocked that Sandburg's hunch had been proved true. Jim gave him thorough directions. Simon said they'd be there as quickly as they could, given the storm. 

The sky had darkened to inky black just in the short time he and Blair had been in the house. Jim opened the refrigerator for milk, eggs and cheese, listening absently to the rising wind. Opening his hearing somewhat he could hear the crash of waves on the rocks at the foot of the cliff.

The lights flickered once, then went out.

He heard another noise, a funny sort of scraping sound. Jim tried to pinpoint it, finally walking over to the section of wall opposite the door to Blair's room. Shelves held crockery and crystal; the bottom one was stuffed with cookbooks. Jim leaned over, running his sensitive fingers over the spines of the books. He felt one of them shift and he jumped back as there was a creaking noise, then the whole section of shelves swung away from the wall. 

There was a figure standing there, revealed in the opening. Before Jim had time to consciously accept what was happening, the figure raised something. There was a loud bang! and a flash of muzzle fire. Jim had time for a second of blazing pain before his world went black. 

*** ***

Blair scrambled in the general direction of the door. His eyes were fighting to adjust to the darkness, his mind was screaming at him to find his Sentinel. There was a rustling behind him and ice-cold fingers grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "You can't go down there!" a woman's frightened voice hissed in his ear. 

"Jim's down there!" 

Melissa was trying to drag him away from the staircase. Blair's anguished mind realized belatedly she was heading to the attic door. They could see a light bobbing on the lower half of the staircase and hear the steps creaking as someone mounted them. A voice called out, "Mr. Sandburg? Blair? You might as well come out, you know. Your friend-- the cop-- is either dead or pretty close to it. There's no way out for you." 

Blair's stomach twisted at the word "dead". Moving quickly, he let Melissa pull them over to the attic door but resisted when she tried to lead him inside. "Get in there!" he hissed. "Lock it. Is there a place to hide up there?" He felt, rather than saw her nod. "Then hide. If Jim had a chance to call Simon there should be help here pretty soon."

"But--" Blair literally shoved her inside and closed the door silently. Then he took a deep breath to quiet the relentless hammering of his heart. He walked to the head of the staircase and looked down. The assailant was on the landing now, pointing the flashlight at the top stair. Blair strained his eyes, but all he could make out was a dark blob behind the flashlight. 

"Who are you?"

"Don't play games with me!" The voice was vaguely familiar but Blair couldn't place it. Then as suddenly as they had gone off the lights came on again. It was still dusky on the staircase but there was enough light from the low-wattage bulb that Blair could recognize the figure holding a gun pointed upwards at him. 

And suddenly, Blair knew he was looking into the eyes of Melissa Stephens' father. 

And her mother's killer.

*** ***

Blair stood stock-still as Dr. Larry Hughes slowly ascended the staircase, gun held steady in his right hand. He heard his own voice--much too calm, given the situation--say, "You were the young actor who had an affair with Rita Mallory and then was blackballed by Roger Winfield."

"I knew there was more to you than you let on," Hughes responded. He'd reached the top step by now and he inched around until he was between Blair and the master suite. "Then I did some checking and found out you work for the cops. You were trying to get something on me, weren't you?" He waved the gun toward the double doors. "In there." 

Blair kept his hands in sight as he started moving, not to the bedroom but so that his back was to the staircase. "You killed them? All of them? The kids? What did they ever do to you?" 

"What did they do to me?" Hughes repeated, rage and astonishment fighting with each other in his voice. "Rita destroyed me! She took my young, innocent love for her and she twisted it for her own ends. She used me and then she tossed me aside when she had what she wanted. She wanted Roger, she wanted him to be jealous, she got what she wanted and she turned her back on me and didn't lift a finger when he demolished my career. She sucked everything I had away and left me a hollow shell.

"I enjoyed killing her! I loved it. Every blow, every stab of the knife was justice and beauty. And then, when I put my hands around her throat, and squeezed, and watched the life slowly leave her eyes... it was exquisite. I saved her until last, she slept through the rest of them dying; I was quick and quiet. She always took a sleeping pill. When she woke up and saw me next to her bed, my hands wet with the blood of her two-bit hoodlum lover and those brats, the look of terror on her face was worth the wait. Stop moving around!" 

He fired once. Blair froze as the bullet sped past him to bury itself in the wall. His mind was screaming at him to run down the stairs, to check on Jim, but he knew he'd never make it. His mouth took over and opened. "So you got your revenge on Rita. But what about Roger? He destroyed your career and got away with it!" 

"Not really. I was hoping he'd be arrested and tried for the murders. He wasn't, but the rumors followed him his whole life. And the loss of his son haunted him. He died empty and alone and bitter." Hughes' face hardened. "It was all over, until you came around. Asking questions. Living here. Bringing Rita back." 

Blair made his move. He grabbed a heavy ginger jar off the small table next to the stairs and heaved it with deadly accuracy at Hughes's gun hand. The man's yell was lost in the roar of the gun firing and the sound of smashing china. Blair leapt down the stairs two at a time.

"Stop!" Hughes bellowed behind him. The gun fired again.

Blair felt the bullet whiz past his head and he jerked instinctively, missing the next step and falling down several. Pain shot up through his left ankle and leg. His head hit the wall and everything grayed out... 

When his vision cleared again, Hughes was standing above him, pointing the gun directly at his head. 

'I'm going to die,' Blair thought dizzily. His mind flashed back to the time when Lash had kidnapped him, chained him in the dental chair; when Blair had known that Jim wouldn't be able to find him and Lash was going to drug him and then hold his head under water until he died. 

His tongue had saved him then, distracting Lash, delaying him until Jim had arrived to rescue him. But his tongue was frozen to the roof of his mouth now, his heart breaking with the fear that Jim was dead. 

"Don't!" a woman's voice pleaded from above. Hughes whirled. Squinting through the dizziness, for just a second Blair saw what Hughes saw: Rita Mallory on the landing, her hands gripping the balustrade. 

"No," Hughes whispered. "No! You're dead! I killed you!" He fired at the figure, wildly. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Blair lashed out with his good leg, his foot catching the other man in the seat of the pants and knocking him off-balance. The gun flew from Hughes' hand to land with a clatter somewhere in the downstairs lower hall. Hughes turned, his eyes alight with the unholy rage of madness, and started toward Blair, his hands outstretched, fingers already curving as if they felt fragile flesh beneath them. 

"Hold it! Cascade PD! Stop right there!"

Through a sudden ringing in his ears, Blair recognized the voice of his Sentinel. "Jim!" he gasped, trying and failing to get up. "I thought you were dead." 

"I'm fine, Chief," Jim said soothingly, slowly moving up the staircase, his gun never wavering from Hughes. The detective's shirt was dark with blood and he held one elbow tightly tucked in to his side. His eyes flickered above. "Are you all right, Mrs. Stephens?" 

Blair couldn't believe it; he'd seen Hughes fire at Melissa Stephens point-blank, but now he heard her voice, trembling but strong, say "I'm okay." 

"Can you come down here?" Jim requested, stepping over Blair to reach out for Hughes. "I need you to get the handcuffs out of my back pocket."

Hughes had been standing motionless, but now he suddenly exploded, launching himself at Jim's wounded side. The two of them struggled, then the sound of a shot once more echoed through the old house. Melissa Stephens screamed. Heart in his throat, Blair tried once more to struggle to his feet. "Jim?" he whispered. 

Jim stepped back, his arms supporting Hughes' weight. Red blossomed on the older man's shirt. His eyes, wide open and glazing over, looked up to stare imploringly at Melissa Stephens. "Rita," he whispered on his last breath. Then his eyes closed. Jim lowered him to the staircase, searched for a pulse, then shook his head and stumbled over to kneel by Blair. 

**Epilogue**

~~"And, in local news, Dr. Craig Stephens today held a press conference to announce that MedComp Industries newly-developed rehabilitation engineering branch, Adaptibilities! will break ground early next month on an estimated 25 million dollar facility near the Cascade docks. This follows Tuesday's announcement that MedComp will be moving its home office to Cascade from Seattle. This is expected to create several hundred jobs. The Nobel-prize front runner also announced that he and his wife, Melissa Stephens, are donating several million dollars jointly to Cascade Allied Hospitals and Rainier University for the development of training programs in physical, speech and occupational therapy as well as rehabilitation engineering...~~

Jim turned down the volume with the remote control just as someone knocked on the door. Blair limped out of his bedroom. "Where are your crutches, Sandburg?" Jim growled as he gingerly rose from the couch. The stitches that had closed the hole in his side were holding well, but his broken rib protested any sudden movements. 

"Man, I hate those things," Blair protested, falling into a chair. "I've got bruises under my arms that hurt worse than the broken ankle!" 

"You're supposed to get your weight off the cross pieces," Jim returned, swatting his partner lightly on the head as he made his way to the door to open it. "Doctor Stephens! Come in." 

"I can't stay long," Stephens said, coming into the room. "I'm on my way to the airport. Blair, how do you feel?" 

Stephens had visited both Jim and Blair several times while they were hospitalized and since their return home, always bringing something: flowers or candy or wine or a very generous reward check which Jim of course had turned down. Melissa Stephens was expected to make a full recovery, although she was still restricted to bed to avoid miscarrying the baby that no one had known she was expecting. Craig Stephens still looked a little lost, but he was well on his way to becoming again the confident, self-assured man most people assumed he was. 

"Taking a vacation? Business trip?" Jim asked, sitting on the arm of Blair's chair. 

"No. I'm going to Vermont to pick up our sons."

"School break?"

"No, we're pulling them out of the boarding school. They'll go to school right here in Cascade, once we get settled. We found a house we can lease while our house is being remodeled." 

"So Jacob Winfield didn't have a problem with selling it to you?" 

Stephens shook his head. "Not once he realized who Missy was. He said it was really more hers than his, anyway. He talked with Missy a bit--he knew Rita Mallory, you know, knew her as a mother surrogate almost. I think it helped her." He paused, then went on, "Ty Aldrich found the lawyer who arranged for Melissa's adoption. Rita Mallory picked Jory and Claire to be Melissa's parents, and she remained in contact with them until the day she died. Missy remembers getting gifts from her 'Aunt Mary', when she was very little, but she never knew who Aunt Mary was. When Melissa and I got married, all of a sudden she had this very large trust fund that helped us with living expenses while we were both in school. Even I wondered about that; Melissa's parents didn't have that kind of money. Her father told me once it was an inheritance but he wouldn't say any more. The lawyer said that Rita put that money in trust for Melissa before she died." 

"How is Mrs. Stephens dealing with everything?"

"She's pretty shaky," Stephens answered Jim, "but she's a strong person. God, I never realized how strong. It helps that she knows now her birth mother didn't just cast her away. Rita Mallory did what she felt was best for Melissa. It's hard for Missy to deal with the fact that her father killed her mother, and her brother, but she's not dwelling on it. We're both looking at this move, this new baby, a new house, as a second chance. I won't screw it up this time." 

"It won't bother her, living in the house where her mother died?" Jim asked. 

"She says not. By the time we get through remodeling it, it won't even look like the same place," Stephens asserted. He hesitated. 

"You know, there's one thing I don't understand," Blair said suddenly. "How did Larry Hughes miss hitting Melissa with that bullet? He shot her from point-blank range." 

"That was rather strange," Jim commented. "Forensics couldn't find the bullet." Jim had also tried to find the projectile using his enhanced senses and had been unable to. 

Stephens hesitated. "Well, according to Missy, it didn't miss."

"What?" Jim exclaimed.

"She says something, or somebody, shoved her to one side and then jumped in front of her. The bullet struck that person instead." He took a deep breath. "It was Rita. Melissa believes her mother saved her life."

*** ***

Stephens left shortly afterwards. Jim came back into the living room and saw Blair staring into space. "Do you believe Rita came back to save her daughter?" the graduate student asked abruptly. 

Jim hesitated. "I believe Melissa Stephens *thinks* that," he responded slowly. "I don't believe in ghosts, so I have a real hard time believing that Rita Mallory's ghost took a bullet for her daughter. What about you?" 

"Motherhood is a powerful force, Jim, in any culture. Rita was killed in that house. Maybe her spirit stays there. And if she thought her only surviving child was in danger from the person who killed her and her son--" 

"Who just happens to be Melissa's father," Jim added dryly. "You surprise me, Chief, a scientist who believes in ghosts?" 

Blair laughed. Jim looked puzzled. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, I'm in a room with a man who can see a black panther that no one else can see, and he doesn't believe that I believe in spirits!" 

"That's different," Jim argued.

"Maybe," Blair admitted. He closed his eyes against the pounding of his head, the last remnant of his concussion. "Maybe you're right."

Silence fell between them.

"Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not," Jim said finally. "Maybe it's just one of those things we aren't meant to know." 

Blair's eyes remained closed, although his lips curved in a smile. "Profound, man." 

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Blair suddenly opened his eyes. "Oh, I forgot. I got you something." He scrambled to his feet, swayed for a second under the pain and dizziness, then went into his room. He returned almost immediately with a wrapped package, which he held out to Jim. "Here." 

"What's this?" Jim asked, taking it. 

"Open the card first," Blair insisted as he sat back down, on the couch this time. "Out loud." 

Jim shrugged and read, "I, Blair Sandburg, do hearby swear that if, at such time I see one James Ellison wearing the contents of this package, to immediately remove myself from his immediate area for a period of time to be decided upon jointly, with no questions, comments or commotion." Jim broke off. "Sandburg, you don't have to--" 

"Just open the package, Ellison."

It was a tee-shirt, a particularly loud orange color that almost made Jim's eyes water. On the front was a black map of the solar system, with the planets standing out in glow-in-the-dark paint. On the back was a message in large black letters. 

"Everyone Needs Their Own Space."

Jim tossed the shirt so that it landed on Blair's head. His welcome laughter rang through the loft. 

Blair smiled. He was home again.


End file.
